


What World Have We Inherited?

by Anonymous



Series: Inherited Means it's Ours to Change [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Also weird family dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Essentially wanted to run with the idea of ‘Wilbur actually blows it all up’, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I mean the festival blew up, Implied/Referenced Character Death, No beta we die like l’manburg, No respawns, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Graphic/Implied Violence, Possible Jschlatt redemption arc?, So there are a lot of creative liberties, Technoblade is trying his best, That has to be two tags. I've been messing with tags for a while now., The road to the comfort is a long one — but it’s a functioning road nonetheless, Villain Wilbur Soot, Written prior to the festival, also yes I spelled it L’manburg., no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 95,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27136732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: (Somewhere else, a madman presses a button.Somewhere else, Wilbur Soot succeeds.)Tommy relived the moment L'Manburg blew up every time he closed his eyes, whether it was to blink, or to sleep. He heard the screams, cut off before they could even gain any true weight by detonations so loud that his ears still rung. He saw Tubbo, wide eyed and petrified as realization dawned. He knew he saw none of it, and yet it was so clear that it haunted him. A wretched dream, made worse by the guilt that plagued his every breath.Out of all the people to survive. Out of everyone.Why was it them?OrWilbur blows everything to hell on the day of the Manburg festival, just like he wanted. When the ashes settle, it's just Tommy and Technoblade. It's not good, but it's better than nothing. It's just them, healing up in a world that never wanted them.(And then it isn't, and the world is already upside down, so it only makes sense for gravity to give up on them entirely.)
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit, Jschlatt & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), No Romantic Relationship(s), None - there will be NO shipping of real people here
Series: Inherited Means it's Ours to Change [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1991845
Comments: 824
Kudos: 1489
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my worst foray into the world of fanfic, and it’ll likely be a bit slow to update as I now have to write my own divergent plot-line. Please enjoy, and any feedback would be greatly appreciated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [EDIT: Important disclaimer for new readers as of January 6th, 2021.
> 
> The festival referred to in this fic is “The Manburg Festival”, which occurred under Schlatt’s short L’Manburg (Manburg?) presidency in October 2020! This fic began around that time and diverged from the canon of that point — Wilbur succeeded at blowing up the festival on his first attempt instead of failing like he did in canon, and the events that led up to that have also been altered — and from there has nearly nothing to do with the canon events of the Dream SMP. This does not refer to the January festival, or any events that occurred after that point, since the first chapter was published on October 21st. 
> 
> That being said, please enjoy the fic! <3]

\-----  
+  
\-----

The explosion was horrific.

Tommy had been so desperate, moments before it all. He'd been so, so desperate, cussing up a storm as he ran blindly through the woods he'd grown accustomed to. His sleeves kept catching on branches and brush, and he just kept tearing away.

He had time. He had time, he just — he needed to stop Wilbur, somehow. Any way at all.

But Wilbur wasn't Dream, even as the vassal he claimed to be. He was not the man behind the smiling mask, who stared at a bloodstained and pleading Tommy after a duel with unreadable body language and a lazy spin of a bow. He was not the man who, despite his smug tone and haughty laughter, took a deal that he didn't truly need to take.

Tommy wasn't grateful to him for it then, but he understood the kindness behind it. The pity. He loathed it, but he buried it, focusing instead on their future. Their freedom.

He loathed him now. If he didn't before, he absolutely did now. Because as he skidded to a stop, nearly tumbling off a cliff, the stranger wearing Wilbur's face turned to stare at him, eyes manic as his smile. He stood, a button pressed in the palm of his left hand and an unused stick of dynamite in the other. One of hundreds, Tommy was sure.

He loathed Dream as he tackled Wilbur to the ground. He loathed him, because Wilbur only cackled and wheezed though breathless lungs, shouting something over his shoulder with no air spared for another inhale. It came out as a croak, and yet Tommy felt his entire body crack right down the middle, shattering into terrified pieces.

Dream was stood mere blocks above their heads, face hidden behind his stupid god-damned mask. Crouched, with an identical remote clasped in his gloved fingers.

Like some kind of cruel act of fate, the last thing Tommy saw before everything blew up was Dream. He watched helplessly as the man blocked himself into the wall to prevent damage, shield raised to the ceiling to keep him safe.

Tommy wished he said something clever. In the end, he didn't say anything at all. He didn't have time to, drowning in Wilbur’s hysteric, victorious laughter.

A bastard to the fucking end, eh?

And then he and Wilbur both went flying into the air.

+

Tommy blinked and he saw Technoblade, looming overhead and blocking out the sun with his netherite armor.

He was twirling his "Axe of Peace" with a blank frown, far too easily to be mistaken for anyone else. The axe landed perfectly in his palm, an extension of his own limbs more than a weapon. He tapped it on an errant rock. Tommy suddenly felt a sense of dread so strong that he didn't want to move. But he had to try, didn't he?

He felt fine. He felt fine, and when he flexed his limbs he felt no damage. Surely, surely that meant that—?

His last smidge of hope evaporated into thin air, because Technoblade tossed a single empty potion bottle to the ground beside him. Tommy smacked his lips.

He didn't need to read the little printed label on the bottle to recognize the taste of gold-gilded melons.

Healing.

Tommy stared up at Techno, but his mouth tasted of shining melons and anxiety and he couldn't choke out any words. He tried to plead for answers. For confirmation that nothing happened, that everyone was alright, that —

"I didn't even get to use it," Technoblade muttered, staring bitterly down at his terrifying weapon. It vanished and reappeared, the magic of it making reality ripple between each pass. It was so sharp that the enchantment made it look transparent near the edge. His monotone chilled Tommy's blood, but the expression in the man's eyes turned it to ice. Bitter. Pitying.

Disappointed.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Tommy pushed himself upright. As if mocking him, his body wasn't even sore. He might as well have been sleeping on memory foam, not rocks and dirt.

Slowly, ever so godforsaken slowly, Tommy looked around, craning his neck to where L'Manburg should be.

Tommy knew that the stranger who'd stolen Wilbur's face had been right.

They lost.

+

Technoblade walked beside him. That was an anomaly in itself, and Tommy focused on it like a desperate lifeline. He needed it. Needed something to cling onto, no matter how bitterly the acid of betrayal and grief burned.

Every other step, he would catch a glimpse of rubble. He'd catch a glimpse of a scorched rock, and he'd stumble, nearly rolling his ankle as his eyes locked while his body tried to keep moving. Techno reached out without a word, pushing him back upright and balancing him with a combat-gloved hand. Tommy wanted to swat his hand away. He didn't.

Technoblade always walked in front of them all. He was always so sure of himself, so apathetic in his movement and so confident in his skill that he barely even cared to light a torch. Tommy found it admirable, once. Now the absence of it made him feel even more hollow.

"Where'd you wanna go?" Came the gruff mumble. The man — The Blood God — had never been good at niceties. This wasn't blood. It was ashes and dust and fire, burning up everything without discrimination.

Tommy could barely think. Where did he want to go? Where could he go?

Pogtopia was wretched. L'Manburg had been gone for ages, far too long for any comfort. Manburg, The Dream SMP...

He wanted to vomit and cry all at once, so he pushed it down as far as he could and locked it away.

When he didn't reply, Techno didn't push. He kept his hand on Tommy's shoulder, and Tommy hated himself for how much he needed the grounding.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He pushed his palms into his face hard enough to ache, and he took in a shuddering breath that made the world blur into meaningless blobs.

He heard screaming. His throat ached. The two only registered as connected when he ran out of air and had to gasp for it.

Technoblade, ever the enigma, didn't even flinch. He sunk to his knees right beside Tommy when he went down, rubbing meaningless circles into his back as Tommy pounded the earth with his fists until they bled. Obscenities fell from his lips in rivers, flowing out and drowning him in their useless weight.

Techno didn't speak. When Tommy's screams devolved into hacking sobs, he unhooked his cloak and pulled it around his shoulders.

+

He had screamed and sobbed himself hoarse in a matter of seconds (minutes? Hours?), leaving his throat raw and aching with every stinging inhale. His eyes felt like they were being crushed from pressure, and his skull ached like he hadn't been healed. His hands trembled as he tried to suck in enough air to see clearly again.

Fuck.

Fuck.

God, he had one job. Just one. He had one job, and he couldn't even —

He gagged, breathless and unable to swallow down air. He retched, the cloak he'd been swaddled in only barely keeping him together.

When Techno held up a bottle of water, he snatched it and chugged it down faster than he should have. It felt like he was drinking lead and stung going down, but at least he could finally take in a breath without choking on the dry ache of his throat.

He threw the bottle with all of his strength, sending it flying into the trunk of a scorched tree. It shattered into glittering dust, and Tommy wished desperately that he could join it.

He was not dust, though. He was small in everything but stature, he was frail, and he was wrapped in a cloak fluffy enough to drown in.

He was alive.

Why did he have to be alive?

Slowly, Techno reached for his arm. When he tugged, Tommy let himself be pulled up to his feet. When he pulled him closer to lead him away, Tommy followed that too. The earth beneath his feet blurred, and he didn't know if he was losing time.

All he knew was that the festival was gone, and everyone was dead.

It was just them, now. Them, and.. and...

And fucking Dream.

+

Tommy didn't open his mouth once, except to slowly sip at water or to choke down food that tasted of chalk. Even then only when Techno stared at him with as much intensity as the man could probably spare between trips to forage or to sharpen his tools. Why Techno even bothered with the latter, Tommy didn't know. He decided, with not only a bit of hysteric grief, to mark the days with Techno's habits. The days where he sharpened the axe were the ones Tommy dubbed "Fridays."

Didn't he know? Tommy thought weakly, one Friday afternoon; There wasn't anyone left to fight. It was just them now, within the borders of a dead land.

Tommy curled up a little more where he sat, and tried to drown his thoughts in the ambient sound of the cave they'd dug into. (Not Pogtopia. Tommy didn't think he'd ever be able to go back to Pogtopia again.)

One day, Techno returned with a heavy satchel and a grim expression, axe slung over his shoulder beside his bow. Tommy didn't speak, but he lifted his head to meet the man's eyes.

Techno upended the bag onto the bed.

Weapons, glimmering with enchantments that Tommy couldn't care less about now. Golden apples, unbruised and clean. A box filled with iridescent enderpearls. A stack of dried rations. Unlit torches with matchsticks tied to the ends.

Two battered, beloved music disks.

Tommy didn't say it out loud, but he thinks — hoped — that Techno could feel his gratitude as he pulled them closer.

He stared down at them. He watched as the little bands and ridges made his eyes blur, an optical illusion that always made both him and Tubbo snicker, before everything. Distantly, Tommy heard himself speak. Another time, somehow whispering through a rift in reality.

("This is the most important thing.")

His grip tightened on the thin edges, and Technoblade took the disks from his fingers before they could shatter too.

+

The next time Technoblade pushed a baked potato into his hands, Tommy ate it immediately. It settled like lead in his stomach, but it stayed down. It was more than he could say for days prior.

Technoblade didn't look relieved, but his shoulders lost a bit of their rigid tension. When Tommy took a quiet swig of the offered water bottle, he nodded his watchful approval. There was something incredibly sad about that - about this, this being what earned Techno's approval.

It was progress. Tommy told himself that until it stuck.

+

Tommy wasn't good at staying stagnant. His brain had whirred at a million miles a second for as long as he could remember, flitting from subject to subject and goal to goal with a hummingbird's efficiency. It made things hard sometimes, the way he pursued things.

The point was, he tended to get restless. That part of him clashed horribly with the sense of numbed exhaustion that tugged at his bones.

"Tommy, pass me the pickaxe?"

It was an odd thing to ask for. Why the man hadn't just had it on him already was a mystery, but it was something to do.

Tommy glanced around, neck stiff from constant stagnancy. Techno already had one pickaxe in his hand, but it was made of crude iron instead of diamond or netherite. Probably to conserve resources, then.

He looked for the netherite tool and he handed it over. Techno inclined his head in thanks, and then glanced over to the wall, like he was thinking.

"Grab a few potatoes for me?"

Tommy moved slowly, feeling a bit like an old man with the way his joints began to creak. He didn't bother to push the cloak off his shoulders, instead letting it fall around him in a heap as he shuffled over to the chest.

It was slow. It was inconvenient.

It was exactly what his restless hands needed, sorting through aimless piles and reaching for the same dinner they'd been eating for what felt like months.

As he passed the potatoes over and Techno asked him for torches, for some coal for the furnace, for a few strings of silk. He wondered, as he worked, if Techno was aware of more than he let on.

+

"Do you like carrots, Tommy?"

Technoblade didn't speak often, but when he did it was always anecdotal. Always in the same tone, open and monotone and not in need of a reply. Tommy wouldn't call it rhetorical, but Techno didn't usually speak to start a conversation.

"I don't like 'em. Not like I've got somethin' specific against carrots. I'm just better with potatoes. More practice."

Where someone else would have stared or waited for a contribution, Technoblade simply continued his aimless tasks. Setting up lit areas to deter the mobs, digging pits to send the water they'd need from a lake. Mining below their feet, searching for supplies they didn't need. Tommy knew Techno had plenty back at his base, but it was farther than L'Manburg had been. Farther than Techno was apparently willing to go for supplies.

Manburg.

Tommy bit his lip so hard he was sure it would draw blood. He was never good at keeping quiet.

Techno whittled the flint of an arrowhead down to a deadly point, back facing Tommy. He inhaled.

"I don't like them," he croaked, barely audible. His throat screeched in protest, and when he swallowed it tasted like iron dust. It hurt.

The telltale sound of metal meeting stone paused for a moment, but Techno didn't turn to look at him.

"Potatoes it is."

And if Techno heard the way Tommy's breath hitched from exhaustion, he didn't mention it, resuming his work with even pace. Tommy handed over the spider's silk that Techno needed to tie the arrows together without a word, and Techno's next aimless questions went unanswered.

Neither of them paid it any mind.

+

They developed a routine, of sorts. Tommy would wake up in one of many states — silent, stock still, thrashing, screaming, crying, — and then he would drink a bottle of water that Techno pushed into his hands. He would sit and stare at a wall, and then Techno would hand him a tool and tell him what to do. Set the torches and follow him while he mined. Bring the iron ore back to smelt. Help carry the coal. Help him tie arrows, help him make dinner. It was stupid, but helping with the simple things made him feel like less of an burden. Less dead weight.

He could do that. He could carry whatever, he could place torches. With time, he found he could mine parallel to Techno, following the other man's lead as they created a rather impressively effective strip mine with intermittent intersections. (It did not remind Tommy of sewers and escape routes. It didn't.)

When he found a strip of diamond, Techno smiled. Tommy wasn't sure if he smiled back, but he felt better than he had in ages.

Instead of lanterns hanging from cobblestone fences they had torches pinned to every wall. The difference helped. They weren't in the ravine, they weren't in Pogtopia. They were in the cave, and they were alone, carving out different areas and rooms in the side of a cliff untouched by the past.

Alone together. A strange concept on paper, an oddly natural one in practice.

Tommy still didn't speak. He used to constantly need to fill the silence, to push the ideas that filled his brain out into the world and away from the near static energized electricity that was his thought process.

The things that occupied his brain now weren't exactly thoughts he wanted to share. So, quiet by choice then.

He was content enough with giving occasional answers to Techno's stated questions whenever he felt up to it. It was a nonjudgmental thing, speaking with Technoblade. No matter how strained or odd his voice sounded, at worst the man would hand him another water bottle, maybe a potion if it sounded like he swallowed a cactus. Simple. Easy. Predictable.

Maybe he'd gotten too comfortable. He didn't know if that descriptor ever applied to someone the the moniker of "Blood God", but he assumed Techno had gotten somewhere close to it.

After all, it seemed like neither of them had expected the new arrival.

+

Techno told him they needed wood, and Tommy had reached for the axe without letting him finish. The pig-man shrugged and let him pass, although Tommy could have sworn he felt eyes on his back, even if when he looked back Techno was focused intently on another batch of arrows.

He didn't need to go far. The entrance to their cave was right on the edge of a forest. Spruce trees sprung up in bunches besides batches of sweet berries, and Tommy popped a few into his mouth as he walked. He shoved a couple into his bag for Techno, careful not to crush them. The last thing he needed was red smeared all over his shirt.

He picked a tree that wouldn't intrude too much on their paths when it fell, and raised the axe.

Techno never let him touch the "Axe of Peace", even now. Tommy was fine with that. The thing kind of scared him. It was too heavy and yet too light, too easy to swing for how deadly of a machine it could be. He was fine with good ol' iron, but Techno had handed a diamond axe to him one afternoon and left before Tommy could shove it back, vanishing down one of their tunnels. Tommy knew he wasn't coming back when he heard the ring of stone meeting netherite, and he sighed. Whatever.

It became a staple amongst his tools. He didn't hold the same proclivity for naming his items as Techno did, but it was reliable and he found himself grateful for the upgrade.

He hacked away at the tree with as much force as he could muster. Techno had it down to more of a method than he did, but he got the job done decently quickly either way. Once the tree began to wobble, he squinted to see how it would fall. He dove in the opposite direction, and the tree fell with a heavy thud.

And then, a voice. A whisper.

"Holy shit."

Tommy hadn't been happy or safe in a long time. At least, it hadn't seemed to feel that way.

(He couldn't really remember the last time he felt safe. Was it with Wilbur? Maybe before- no. No no. Not now. Focus.)

Not for the first time, he wondered if he didn't know himself as well as he thought he did.

His eyes flew open and his mind snapped to uncomfortable alertness as he scanned the area. Where did that come from? Where the hell—?

A dark shape, darting past and rustling though the trees.

Tommy felt his stomach drop to the ground, and his grip on the axe turned white knuckled with tension.

Shit.

Shiiiit.

He had to make a choice. He had to choose whether or not he would fight, searching for the voice that he may have imagined, or run. His eyes scanned the area again and again, searching for another sign of movement from the dark. The trees offered their home cover, yes. But the sanctuary of the forest went in both directions, and he couldn't pin down anything at all.

Tommy had to choose.

At the beginning, he knew it wouldn't have even been a decision. At the beginning, maybe even at the middle, Tommy would have run in with his axe already raised for the kill. He would have dove in with his teeth bared, ready to challenge anyone. Maybe he couldn't win, but he would fight any battle brought to him.

Tommy had come a long way from the bright eyed kid who started a war.

He gripped his axe, and he bolted back from where he'd come.

The trees blurred, and he was both devastated and relieved that he hadn't chosen to run too far for their supplies. The entrance to the cave came up quickly, and he nearly slammed into the door in his haste to bolt inside and slam it behind him. The torches rattled on the walls.

His breath came in gasping heaves, and he leaned against the doorframe with the axe hanging at his side.

Techno wasn't visible at first, but the man came running up the stairs and skidded to a halt in his boots, axe already poised in his hands. He presented a hell of an imposing figure, muscles tensed and jaw locked in a deadly glare. There was soot smeared on his face and clothing, which meant he was probably gathering coal before dropping everything.

When he saw it was only Tommy, his posture relaxed. When he saw the look on Tommy's face, his expression hardened to steel.

He strode forward with purpose, reaching out with his free hand to grab him by the shoulder. Tommy allowed himself to be led, focusing on his breathing. He sat on the bed, and Technoblade knelt down to stare at eye level.

"Tommy."

Techno's voice was stern. Harder than Tommy had ever heard it, much less directed at him recently. This tone was not offering aimless questions to fill silence. This Technoblade was not gathering supplies, and he didn't have the time for useless questions. Tommy knew what he wanted.

"I — someone's out there," he said. His voice was less rocky than it was at the start, but it was still decently hoarse with disuse. He cleared his throat, as if that would help. (It did, but only a little. He tried to breathe, and tried not to think about explosions and survivors and emotionless masked faces.)

"They were out there — Techno, I didn't hear them coming." He didn't know there was anyone else left. He didn't have to say it. He didn't have to say who he was afraid that it was.

It was kind of strange, the fine line between Technoblade the Potato Farmer and Technoblade the Blood God. Both held a kind of intensity to them, quiet and rumbling and stern. That, Tommy suspected, was just a part of the man himself. That wasn't the tipping point.

No, the change was all behind the intent. Behind the eyes.

Techno's relaxed apathy had solidified to a death sentence personified, and yet somehow Tommy only felt more secure. He seemed to be contemplating something, and then he reached behind him.

Technoblade pulled his enchanted netherite sword from its sheath and held it out to Tommy, handle first.

Alone together. They could do this.

Tommy took it.

Techno stared for a moment longer, and then he nodded. He turned on his heel in a movement that was too smooth to be unique. He threw on his armor and slid on his shield with a speed Tommy would have found surprising if... Well. If he didn't know who Technoblade was.

Techno was slamming the chest shut when there was a knock at the door. Of all the things he'd expected, he didn't think there would be a knock at the fucking door. It was bold. Uncomfortably bold.

He scrambled to his feet, sword held out in front of him with his arms tensed and ready. Techno glanced back with half lidded eyes, although his gaze never quite left the source of the sound.

The knock came again.

Techno raised his shield, and tapped his foot on the floor.

One.

Two.

Three.

Everything after that happened in a blur.

Techno was a blur. He lunged for the door and threw it open, kicking it aside and launching himself forwards with a speed Tommy hadn't seen in forever. Whomever was standing there was knocked backward immediately, and Tommy knew then that it wasn't Dream. He didn't know if he was relieved or not.

Either way, it took him a beat before he rushed out after them, near frantic with the need to...

He didn't know. Help, maybe? Did Technoblade even need help for this?

It didn't matter, because he was running, and then he was outside, blinded by the sun lighting up the rocks around them. He squinted, and it all came into violent focus.

\----  
#  
\----

The thing about explosions is this. After they're done, after all the booming, after the ringing and the terror, things go incredibly silent. Either objectively or by comparison, it doesn't matter. It didn't take a genius to know what happened, and it didn't take a blind man to know what he was seeing.

Wilbur really had gone through with it, the crazy bastard.

"And here I thought I was here for military support," he said, to nobody, "who am I supposed to be fightin'?"

There was nobody left to hear him, so it didn't matter how terrible his quips were. Not that he usually cared, but still. There was a point to it, even if he didn't know what it was.

L'Manburg — Manburg? He wasn't really clear on the details — was in shambles, blown to pieces by the man that proclaimed his love for it the most. It felt like something out of a terribly cliche romance movie.

He surveyed the damage with detached eyes, not that he really needed to. He wasn't in it for the nation. Not in the way that they had been — not with the same fiery passion that had lit the soles of their shoes until they couldn't stand still. He had envied it, almost. It had been a long time since Technoblade had felt that passionate about anything. His fingers itched around the handle of his axe, bloodless and unused. Bitter.

He came to the server for anarchy, and he didn't even get to be a part of it.

He had been about ready to just pack it up. The world was in shambles, and from what he could tell it would probably fall back to Dream. The masked man that had apparently been the beginning of a long-winded and complicated series of battles. Technoblade wasn't really sure he understood the hype, even with his own knowledge of the Artic Empire. Even with his own long string of battles and wars. (At what point had those battles begun to be notches in a belt? When had things shifted from thrilling to domination?)

And then there was a sound.

Now, Technoblade was not cut out for emotional support. He was good at a lot of things. Most things even, if he was feeling boastful. But emotions? Focusing on the emotional needs of other people fell far outside of his wavelength. It was most of the reason that he abided by chaos, instead of by a particular side. Loyalties got messy, blurring lines and conflicting with everything and anything, even themselves. Anarchy was simple, and it was bloody, and it was everything that he was good at.

Even so, he was not so much of an introvert that he was going to leave whoever made that sound to die. He didn't really know who was on what side, but he was pretty sure sides didn't exist anymore, so it mattered even less.

He followed the direction he heard it from — human GPS, he murmured to himself — with his axe still at his side. It felt almost a bit too morbid now, the Axe of Peace.

Was this peace what Wilbur sought?

Probably, going by the mad laughter he'd given when Technoblade asked if he wanted any help.

Maybe, going by the long stares Wilbur always directed at the sky, like he was searching for something he never seemed to find.

Probably. Maybe. He didn't really know.

Techno was half expecting it to be Wilbur, manic and wide eyed and hysterical. He'd seen people of the sort before, with their big plans and bleeding backs. The paranoid eyes, the searching of the shadows. He knew what it looked like, and he knew where it was bound to lead. He hadn't really expected Wilbur to go through with it to such an extreme extent.

He hadn't expected to find Tommy, laid out on his back in the middle of a rocky field, either.

He didn't hesitate, despite what some of the rumors and stories about him might have suggested. He was not heartless, and he was not about to let a child suffer and die. (Well. The suffering he couldn't do much about, but the death part? That, he could fix.)

He dropped to one knee beside the kid, and felt for a pulse. When he felt it beat back at him, he popped open the seal of one of his healing potions. Potent stuff, enough to patch up whatever the hell happened to a person thrown by dynamite.

(In the distance, he swore he could hear the sound of someone running, then pausing, and then running away. He didn't bother to look and see who it was. Tommy probably didn't have that kind of time.)

Luckily enough for them, Tommy seemed to have somehow gotten away without debris embedded in his flesh. Techno lifted up the kid's head, tilted it back, and slowly dripped the potion into his mouth.

It was an agonizingly slow process, but it worked. The wounds that did litter Tommy's body sealed themselves up without a trace, abrasions healing over and vanishing in seconds. By the time the bottle was empty, Tommy looked like he might as well have been taking an ill-timed nap, had his clothes not been burned and torn. He'd done a pretty good job for being an amateur healer, considering how usually he was occupied with the opposite.

Techno set him back down, brushing himself off and checking the bottle for any residual potion left inside. He could probably reuse it, if he cleaned it properly.

And then Tommy woke up, and Techno was reminded again just how out of his element he truly was.

#

Technoblade was still not cut out for emotional support.

He was still good at a lot of things, and it seemed like that list was determined to get longer, whether or not he wanted it to.

He learned a lot of things that he never gave a second thought to during the first week. The fact that Tommy was not going to speak was a major one. A silent Tommy was a strange Tommy, and even he was admittedly unsettled by the change, not that he didn't understand it. Tommy stared the way he'd seen millions of others stare after lost wars. It looked too old for a face like his — he'd seen too much far too soon.

He contemplated asking questions, when he first began to lead Tommy away. When the screaming started, that plan fizzled away into dust.

From that point onward, he didn't push him.

He wasn't sure how much pressure it would take to make Tommy shatter like the old bottles he kept throwing and breaking. He didn't want to find out.

#

"You've gotta eat somethin'."

He said it more for the sake of it than for expecting a reply. Tommy had done little other than stare and shift over the past day and a half, unmoving except to adjust Technoblade's cloak. He hadn't shed it since Techno first tied it around him, and his fingers were white around them like he was trying to claw it against his skin. Techno had really only done that on a hunch, but he was glad shock blankets actually did something.

He gave up eventually, but only after holding up a water bottle to the near catatonic teen. When he took a few sips and then let it go, Techno caught it and capped it again. He set it to the side, where the cool surface of the stone would keep it from getting too warm.

Tommy wasn't doing well. Not that Techno would expect him to, really, but it was getting worse by the day. He'd doze off only to jerk awake again, eyes darting around and dimming like broken lightbulbs, hope repeatedly crushing itself with every rude awakening. Techno didn't know what to do about it, and so he didn't do anything at all. He just continued the slow routine in hopes of establishing a baseline, working on nothing while waiting for the next time he'd offer food and a drink. By the time Tommy ate and actually finished his first potato, Technoblade had three extra pickaxes and four stacks of unneeded extra arrows. He made more the next day anyway. Preparation wasn't going to hurt anyone.

#

The day Tommy actually ate his food immediately, Techno tried not to feel proud. It was such a minor achievement, if it could even be called that on his part.

So, Techno was not proud. Not of himself, anyway.

(He cobbled together a plan for a gift, when Tommy was ready for it. Techno hadn't been particularly invested, not in the way Tommy had. But at least he could make solid tools, and god if that didn't sum up his existence in a simple package.)

#

With Tommy finally eating again, Techno would leave, occasionally. Not for long, and not every day, but he did.

He did his best to follow a routine, once he realized that Tommy seemed to be watching through hazy and unfocused eyes. Haunted as he was, sometimes it helped to have a consistent thing going. So, he'd prepare for one trip every week. They couldn't well survive on what Techno had with him, anyway. He needed to set up some kind of sustainable camp, and that meant they needed a consistent supply of water and food. Spice something up with some steak, chicken, whatever. Even Technoblade got tired of eating the same thing.

The first trips were the shortest, of course. They were barely even "trips", all things considered. He would leave the door open and reach for his only axe. Ironically, the Axe of Peace saw its first proper use on a spruce tree right outside their base, only active after the conflict it was meant for was cancelled before it begun. The axe was living up to its name in a manner he hadn't expected. It seemed that kind of thing was becoming a trend.

He carried the logs in and shut the door behind him, and pointedly did not bring attention to the way Tommy would stare until the door was closed.

(He must have had to watch for so much, before. And while Techno would never hate Wilbur — their ideals aligned too well for that — he had a moment of quiet regret for the man that had taken Wilbur's place.)

#

On the longest trip he'd taken to the date, Technoblade ventured back to the old base. Near Pogtopia, as Tommy and Wilbur had called it. An absurd name, but Technoblade had seen worse.

He went back to his personal base first, diving under the water and to the buried passage for the first time in a while. The water was colder than he remembered, but that was fine. It was refreshing, and he recalled quite quickly why he'd chosen a freshwater river instead of a secluded lake.

Technoblade hadn't exactly been invested enough in the war to be nostalgic, but it felt a bit strange to rustle through the supplies he'd built up for a war that never came. He'd assumed that Dream would have taken some course of action, and he didn't believe for a second that the masked man had died in the blast. But with weeks gone and no appearances, it seemed at least that he had no interest in them anymore. Techno grabbed a little of everything and put it in his personal bag. When he emerged from his base, he switched to the one he'd chosen to delegate to Tommy.

Nothing in Pogtopia belonged to him, except perhaps the potato farm. Not that he really minded, since he wasn't exactly the kind of guy to put down roots. He hadn't spent as much time there as he was probably meant to either. Even though he'd been there for a considerable amount of its construction — safety rails, forest fires, he recalled — it had never felt like he was welcome there.

He attributed most of that to Wilbur's distrust at the time, but now he knew it was more growing paranoia. The man had grown from doubtful to mad, and it had leaked through to the bases he built.

There were the early editions; what little had come before Technoblade had arrived, or immediately after. The cobblestone fences with chains that held the lanterns to them. The stairs, the door and the bed.

Then there was what had developed. The grass, the speckles of cobblestone scattered around the area. The random spots of wool, of misplaced ore and wooden planks.

It was, in hindsight, probably kind of obvious that Wilbur was deteriorating. He wasn't sure how nobody had seen it coming.

He walked up to the chest and put in everything the bag could feasibly carry. He aimed for utilities, like the old weapons and hidden stash of pearls. Golden apples, enchantment bottles that glowed like captured fireflies. It all went in without a hitch, save for the crossbow that he had to sling over his shoulder.

He was about to close the chest when he paused, eyes lingering on two black disks.

He thought back to the very beginning of his time here. He thought back to the night where Wilbur had been the steadiest, where Tommy had pulled an old jukebox out and into the open.

He thought about the solemn way both Tommy and Wilbur stared at that old box, like an old friend humming a tune on their deathbed.

"This is the most important thing," Tommy had said. Wilbur said the same.

Techno hadn't understood then, but he'd removed his helmet in a kind of detached attempt at respect. They'd laughed at him, dejectedly, and then they'd laughed at themselves. It hasn't seemed very funny, but Techno wasn't really a baseline for normal humor.

He didn't understand now, either. But he had seen the look in their eyes, and while Technoblade was still not meant for emotional support, he thought for a moment that he knew what to do.

"The most important thing," Technoblade echoed, like saying it out loud would make it click, like it would give him a spark of the passion the revolutionaries held so dear. It didn't.

The disks slid in perfectly next to the case of enderpearls. He left the jukebox behind.

#

Things got better, in the way that only truly terrible things could. They got better with a sense of inevitability. One thing that Techno had begun to understand was that everything, absolutely everything was fleeting. The time for some things would come and go quicker than others, but in the end things would always change.

It took effort, this particular change. But as Tommy began to breathe a little easier, as the nightmares went from screaming matches with unseen monsters to quiet sobs that subsided with a bit of grounding reality, Techno marked it as one anyway.

He looked at Tommy one day, and he saw the aimless twitch of restless hands. Tommy's eyes didn't match, not in the way they should have, but they weren't as clouded by memories he couldn't shake. It was enough to push Techno forward, and it was enough to encourage Tommy to take on small things. Hand him a pickaxe, throw some potatoes in the oven. Sometimes Techno would need to reach for it, and sometimes he'd need to make sure the potatoes didn't burn. But as that became less and less frequent, Tommy began to breathe again.

Slowly, ever so slowly, things began to improve.

Techno gifted Tommy a diamond axe. He carefully vanished down one of their strip mines before Tommy could insist he take it back.

#

When Tommy burst into the cave, Techno was digging out lumps of coal. It was his least favorite ore to mine, since it would smear all over his hands and turn his white shirt a dirty grey. They needed it, though, and it lasted longer than charcoal did.

He was always equipped to fight down in the mines, on the off chance that he dug into the wrong area and the ground fell out below. The last thing he needed was to be ambushed, even if it was by a bunch of simple mobs.

When the door slammed, the sound echoed throughout the entire base. The door did not slam. Tommy didn't like loud noises, and he did not slam the door. Techno had found that out when a zombie had been chasing him one night, and he'd slammed the door in its face. He didn't get a wink of sleep that night, listening to Tommy sob. Technoblade had long since outgrown guilt — a necessity, not a wish — but it was pretty damn close.

Techno dropped the pickaxe, forgotten in place of his melee weapons. He dug his foot into the ground and leapt, skipping steps and launching himself into the main room.

Tommy was there, and he looked terrified. He looked like a sheet of paper, pale as the nights where the nightmares blurred with reality. Techno's fingers flex around the sturdy handle of his weapon, and the Axe of Peace shimmers under his grip.

Techno was not good for emotional support.

But tactical support?

That, he could do.

#

Techno launched himself forwards, and for the first time in ages he felt like he was in his element again. The speed, the force of his own adrenaline pushing him to strike, it all flooded him with violent abandon.

He practically flew out the door, kicking back whoever dared to venture into the living space they'd carved out. He was moving faster than he had since it all began, axe coming down in a dangerous arc that screamed of smothered power.

Whoever was there must have been quick, because even though they were definitely off center they rolled to the side in time to dodge. The armor they wore gleamed in the sun, reflected bright sunlight into his eyes. Gold then, or maybe iron. The axe buried itself in the ground, and yanking it out cost him a split second of focus.

In that second, he reevaluated. Not a novice, but not a skilled fighter either. No blows came whilst he was distracted. No netherite. Not Dream.

He steadied himself, shield at the ready as he threw his leg outward in a near graceful sweeping kick. He caught the stranger easily, and they went down with an audible thump against the grass. They tensed to dodge, but Technoblade was faster. He trapped them with a boot to the chest, and he held the sharp tip of the axe near the neck of his opponent. Exposed neck. Non-polished armor. Iron, now that he was looking again.

He was breathing heavily, but it was more the adrenaline and unused muscles than it was the fight. It was an entirely different animal, fighting another person instead of practice dummies. He'd learned that early on.

The Blood God in him reared its ugly head, starved and thirsting and enraged. His fingers twitched with the urge to bring the weapon down, to refresh the memories that he already knew like the back of his hand. The victories he'd pried from the jaws of jeering devils and cocky angels.

The rest of him, the calm part, was curious and moderately surprised. He'd learned he could still be surprised early on too.

He stared down at the sweating government official that he'd been asked to kill right when it all began. He pressed the edge of the axe closer, nearly flush with the other man's skin. The edge of the blade rested on the tip of a broken horn.

Schlatt stared up at him with thinned pupils, hands up as he was pinned beneath Techno's boot. Whatever weapon he had was gone and Techno wasn't stupid enough to look for it.

Schlatt wilted like a dying flower under his dry stare, but he opened his mouth anyway. When he spoke, his voice sounded like it had been silent for months. It probably had been, for the first time in the man's life.

"... Hey Technoblade."

\-----  
#  
\-----


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was strange how easy it was to take things for granted. How easy it was to sink into a routine, no matter how dire the situation had been before. 
> 
> It was strange, really, that they hadn't seen this coming.
> 
> Or
> 
> Tommy's been told all kinds of stories about being a hero; the kinds of things that make every kid wish and dream and babble about their future adventures. 
> 
> Being a hero really isn't all it was cracked up to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, chapter two!  
> As always, please enjoy, and any feedback would be greatly appreciated. I can’t promise updates will always be this speedy by the way, I just so happened to already be working on the next chapter when I posted the first. Also, if you have any thoughts on the flow of the story or the events, I’d love to hear it.

_"There are some things, Tommy_ ," _Wilbur said, eyes dark and misty as he clutched the lapels of his abandoned uniform, "there are some things that you just can't explain."_

_The ache in the room made Tommy feel dangerously close to tears. He gritted his teeth, and snatched his sword from the ground._

_Maybe killing a few zombies would burn out the raw ache of loss._

\-----

+

\-----

Tommy stared. 

Tommy blinked. He rubbed his eye with his free hand. 

Neither of those things changed the impossible image that burned itself into his retinas. Neither of those things made the monster of a ghost vanish from beneath Techno's boot. 

Neither of those things made Schlatt vanish. 

Techno saw him before the ghost did, which made sense. Unlike the rest of this. Because none of it made sense. 

Techno tilted his head slightly, expression carefully blank as he glanced back to focus in on Tommy. He wasn't sure if Techno was waiting on some kind of signal — if he was, Tommy was in absolutely no shape to give one. 

Schlatt was alive. 

How the absolute fuck was Schlatt alive? 

Tommy was running on a delay, apparently, because he blinked again. One moment Schlatt was on the floor, pinned beneath Techno's boot, pressed suit flawless against the grass. The second, the suit was nowhere to be found. Schlatt almost seemed to blur, and something... Something looked wrong. Impossibly wrong. 

A greater part of Tommy was simply dumbfounded, and he was suddenly back to being as lost for words as he had been weeks ago. 

"..." 

Techno turned to look at him, and Tommy blinked back. 

Techno looked back down, very slowly, at Schlatt. The latter's ears had flattened against his head at the piercing gaze, and Tommy realized that the man was not the ghost that he appeared to be. 

They were similar. Identical, even, in some ways. But this Schlatt looked battered and bruised, even without the introduction of Technoblade to the mix. His hair and horns, once polished and clean, were unkept and jagged respectively. The very tip of the left horn was snapped off in a clean break, and his face was coated in soot. His shirt collar was torn terribly, black blazer nowhere to be seen. Blood was leaking out from his nose, dripping into unkempt facial hair. There was grime under his fingernails, smeared and staining. Even his face was different, more sallow and haggard in places where it had been smooth. He looked hungrier than he used to, and in a different manner. Less greed, more starvation.

Tommy had never, ever seen this version of the man who'd taken everything from them. 

It was almost a mockery of his former image, so horrifically, tauntingly clean-cut. The part of Tommy that could still feel vindictive fought for space in his brain, the part of him that whispered like Wilbur had. It fizzled when it met the constant exhaustion that blurred his vision, meeting instead at the middle. He opened his mouth, unsure himself of what would emerge. 

"What the fuck?" 

Time felt like it was passing by as sludge, barely moving and swallowing up every breath he tried to take. 

Tommy had been plagued by his nightmares. The vision of faces he never saw, contorted in terror and death and bolstered by his own terrible imagination. They haunted him like spectres, twisting and twirling until his eyes unfocused and whatever he was working on morphed into another goddamn stick of dynamite. He'd thrown four torches and stomped them to embers before he realized. Technoblade shrugged it off, mumbling that they could always make more. 

This was different. This was not his reality twisting in on itself, curled up and confusing and sadistic in ways he could never imagine. _This_ evil was one he knew well. 

Because somehow, despite the entire purpose of Wilbur's mad plan being to take Schlatt down, the man was still alive. Battered and worse for wear, maybe, but he was alive, and that wasn't fucking fair. 

Tommy realized his hands were shaking when the sword dropped to the ground, clanging and ringing and far too loud. Everything was too loud. The birds, the whistling of the wind, all of it was _too loud._

Technoblade wasn't facing him, but he could tell the man heard it. His already tensed posture turned to stone, and from the wheezing groan that Schlatt made, Tommy had to guess he'd pushed down harder on the horned man's chest. In the distance, the shriek of a crow joined the symphony of noise that buzzed around Tommy's ears. 

"..."

Tommy was frozen where he stood. The buzzing spread from his ears to his chest, meeting the pins and needles halfway up his arms and turning his entire body to static. It was too much. It was all too loud, he didn't know what to do. Why was Schlatt here? How? 

"..!"

Was he working with Dream? Did the green bastard switch sides _again_ , after filling Wilbur's head with poison and whispers? After ruining the fragile peace that Tommy had left? After betraying them, yet another name to the wretched list he had refused to believe in? 

" _Tommy_!" 

Tommy felt like he'd suddenly broken the surface of the arctic ocean, ice cold and slapping him across the face. Techno's voice dragged him from his static prison, and he forced his weary eyes to focus. 

Techno was still standing over Schlatt, not looking at all in Tommy's direction. He wasn't sure how the man knew he'd heard. 

"We need a potion. The black one in the back of the chest." 

Techno had his axe pressed against Schlatt's windpipe, so close that Tommy was actively waiting for blood to spill. 

Nothing for another beat. 

" _Tommy._ " Urging. _Urgent_. Technoblade needed it, and Tommy needed a distraction. 

He was moving before he could really register it, stumbling backwards until he nearly tripped into the base. He could barely manage to rip his eyes away from the paradox that poisoned their little pocket of reality. The horns, the torn shirt collar, the wide yellow eyes that saw too much and said too little. He couldn't stand to look. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and ran for the chest, falling to his knees and skidding to a painful stop. The stone was unforgiving, but it was grounding enough to let him focus on what Techno asked for. 

He winced cursing his hands as they fumbled with the lock. Once he actually got the thing open, he scanned it. Potions. Potions, black potions, black…

Paper? 

In the back of the chest, there was a small object covered in ebony black paper, wrapped like it was some kind of weapon. Unexplained dread rose like bile, and he almost convinced himself he hadn't found what Techno told him to look for. Unfortunately for him, he had never been a very good liar. 

Instead, he reached out and pulled the paper away. The void-like liquid that swirled inside the bottle made him feel vaguely queasy when he looked at it, like someone had bottled up a portion of nothingness. Something you weren't ever supposed to be able to see, let alone comprehend. It felt like a liquified nightmare, and Tommy didn't want to hold it any longer than he had to. 

_When had Technoblade even made this thing?_

Not that it was even holding it that was the issue. The potion bottle felt the same as all the others. Slightly warmed from magic. Smooth, clean glass that Techno probably blew from piles of heated sand himself. Techno was always good at the details of things like that, but he never explained why. It just felt unsafe. Unknown. He was never the brewer of the group, that was always Tu—

...

Tommy swallowed, and tried not to be sick as he made his way back outside. 

Techno threw his free hand out in his direction, and Tommy edged closer, hand slowly stretching outward with the bottle held by the bottleneck. He half expected it to be snatched out of his hands for all the emphasis Technoblade had given it, but the man waited until Tommy had practically set it in his palm before his fingers closed terrifyingly carefully around it. By then, Tommy was far closer than he wanted to be, and uncomfortably certain that his previous caution hadn't been misplaced. He tried to avoid eye contact, but his own body betrayed him, eyes drawn to the amalgamation of his own fears. 

Schlatt looked the same as Tommy had first thought, once the reality of the situation set in. Battered and bruised and an absolute hot mess. Now that Tommy was closer, he could see that the red tie the man always wore was nowhere to be found. He could only thank whatever worthless, barely lit lucky star he had left that Schlatt was too occupied with Technoblade to look at him. _Too occupied by the real threat, maybe?_

And then Techno was shoving Tommy backward and throwing him out of his thoughts, popping the cap from the bottle, and upending the contents directly onto Schlatt's head. 

Schlatt gasped at the same time as the breath was knocked from Tommy's lungs, but Tommy obviously recovered first. He watched with wide eyes as the liquid seemed to seep into Schlatt's skin, some even dripping into his open mouth. It looked like a shadow, soaking in and leaving a grey-undertone to everything it touched. Poison? No. It looked nothing like the green sludge that had nearly made him vomit before. ( _Don't think about oceans, about duels, about countdowns and loss—_ ) 

Techno had moved back at some point, blocking both himself and Tommy with his cloak acting as a barrier. The man yanked his collar up to cover his nose, gaze flicking back to Tommy in some kind of surprise. 

"Cover your face!" Technoblade ordered, and the urgency of it made him comply. He stuffed his shirt up and over his mouth, but he couldn't avert his eyes. 

The midnight black of the liquid almost seemed to fizzle the longer they waited, and Tommy braced himself. What the hell was Techno doing? What was _Schlatt_ doing? Techno had moved, but he wasn't getting up. 

In fact, he wasn't doing much of anything, even as the midnight black seemed to evaporate without a trace. For a split second, Tommy thought the man was dead. 

Then Schlatt gasped. His hands flew to his face, almost seeming to claw at his skin.

"Where - what the fuck did you do?! Where did you go?!" 

What? 

"Get it — get it off! What the fuck did you — what is this? I can't —" 

Schlatt was shoving at the ground, stumbling to his feet only to hit his armoured back against a tree with an audible clang. His head whirled around like a wild animal, but his gaze swept over Tommy and Technoblade like he couldn't see them at all. 

Techno dropped his cloak, and Tommy took it as his cue to uncover his face too. 

Schlatt didn't acknowledge any of it. He was still whirling, turning back and forth and rubbing at his eyes like they stung. It was only when Schlatt swept wild eyes past them a second time that Tommy realized what was different. His eyes were completely coated in black, like his pupils had swallowed up every hint of yellow and white.

Tommy reached for Techno's arm and tugged. 

_What the hell was going on?_

Technoblade seemed utterly unconcerned, glancing down at Tommy and then back. He set a hand on the boy's shoulder before moving, posture abruptly relaxed as he strode forward to walk in a wide circle around the spinning ram. 

"Blindness," Technoblade announced aloud, and oh, he wasn’t talking to Tommy anymore, was he? "I've been workin' on it for ages. Didn't get a chance to test it on anythin' but mobs." 

It was carefully crafted, Technoblade's tone. So casual, nearly flippant. But Tommy knew what casual Technoblade sounded like, and that wasn't it. He spoke too loud and with too much inflection, and the dry edge to the words made them taste like a threat where they hung in the air. 

Schlatt seemed to be trying to follow his voice, but he was always a bit behind. He whirled at the wrong moments, turning back and forth like he was trying to find a speck of dust in a tornado. Eventually his back hit another tree, and Tommy gawked as Schlatt dug his nails into the wood. He looked hunted. Out of control. 

"What the fuck," Schlatt shouted again, "stop — make it stop! Stop moving damn it, where are you!" 

He was growing progressively more frenzied as Tommy watched, throwing his head back and forth. Techno seemed completely unimpressed, even as he wove in and out of the trees. He was disorienting him, Tommy realized. He was making sure Schlatt had absolutely no idea where he was, where the next strike could or would come from. The realization must have dawned on Schlatt too, because his voice cracked to an even higher pitch as he grasped at an empty belt. He didn't even have a shield. 

It would be almost comedic if it weren't so horrific, the casual manner in which Techno twirled an obvious stolen iron sword between his fingertips. The metal made almost elegant music as it sliced through the air, a gleaming beam of betrayal in the sun. The sound must have reached Schlatt too, because his skin paled even further as he pressed his back against the only solid object he could reach. 

"Shit," Schlatt said, almost breathless, "you can't — jesus, you can't be serious right now! What the hell are you doing?" 

Techno cleared his throat, and he sheathed the sword at his side. It fit oddly, not designed to take up the space that had hidden the netherite he'd told Tommy to hold. 

The netherite that was currently sitting, almost innocently, on the stone floor mere inches away. 

Inches away from a blinded, useless, terrified creature of Tommy's greatest nightmares. From the horned man who gripped the nation he and Wilbur had sacrificed everything for, only to crush it in uncaring pieces beneath his stupid dress shoes. The man who'd stolen Tubbo away, who'd ripped a hole into the only loyalties they had. Who'd sparked the flame that swallowed up Wilbur's sanity until it burned it all to ashes. Who'd terrorized some of the worst of Tommy's nightmares, daunting and leering and always, always poaching away everything he held dear. 

Inches away from a ram-horned man that didn't look so scary anymore, nearly cowering against an unforgiving god, staring at nothing from non-existent shadows.

The part of Tommy that he'd thought died with Wilbur surged like a forest fire, vindictive and hungry and _oh so fucking angry._

Tommy hadn't felt secure in a very, very long time. He hadn't felt powerful in even longer. 

( _"Tommy, you were never in charge!" Wheezed a breathless Wilbur, two octaves too high. Mocking as he took stacks upon stacks of dynamite from offering gloved hands._

 _It hit his pride, but it hit his stability harder. Always underestimated, always the punk kid. The bitter ache made him grind his teeth, the hurt made his aim shake._ ) 

He felt powerful now, taking slow, even steps back until the sword was within his reach. 

He felt powerful, as he lifted the blade. It felt even lighter now, like he was directing air to do his deadly bidding. 

He could kill him. 

He could kill him, and he would die, and there would be no fucking person in the world that could bring him back. He could avenge them all. He could avenge them all and kill the bastard and they'd all be better off. Tommy could use the sword for what it was meant for and plunge it between Schlatt's ribs and he could scare him, and he could make the man feel even a fraction of the horror that he forced on them.

The blade was to Schlatt's neck, and Schlatt's rambling babbles and useless threats cut off with a choked gasp. His entire body went stiff, and Tommy felt something hysterical rush into his blood alongside the adrenaline. His mouth curled into a grin that ached at the corners. Did Schlatt think he was Techno? Did he even consider for one moment that it was Tommy, enraged and mad and so fucking close to slitting his neck? 

Schlatt looked like he was about to fall like a frozen statue.

 _Just like a real fucking goat_ , he wanted to crow. The words wouldn't leave his throat, but that was fine. He didn't need to talk to do what was coming next. 

A hand grabbed him by the arm and pulled him backwards with far too much force, and Tommy realized that Technoblade was speaking. Had been, maybe. Techno was shaking him, grip heavy on his forearms. Tommy's ears were ringing with energy and rage and the residue of explosions long past, but he read Technoblade's lips as he repeated something over and over again. 

" _Let go of the sword._ " 

For the first time in a long time, Tommy's expression peeled back into anger. The face used to be familiar, but it almost ached now. He felt a sting, like his lips had split, and he tasted iron as he forced himself to speak, coming back into focus with every letter. The whispers of betrayal that sounded too much like Wilbur sunk snugly into his chest, and he tried in vain to shove it out. Fingers scooping at an incoming wave. He wouldn't. Techno wouldn't. 

"What —?" 

"If you want this to happen, Tommy," Techno interrupted, shutting Tommy's croak down — and that was wrong, Techno _never_ interrupted him now — "then fine. I'll kill him myself. You know I will." 

The grip on Tommy's arms grew tighter, and Techno refocused on him with a glare so intense he felt like he'd burn up on the spot. 

"I'll kill him," Technoblade repeated, voice low enough to be a snarl, "but you let go of the sword." 

Tommy was reeling. 

Let go? Let go of his one, his _only_ chance at finishing what Wilbur had started? At snatching back L'Manburg from the bastard that spat on its legacy? The energy of it thrummed like radioactive poison, and his hand kept flexing and unflexing, twitching with capped energy. He had to! Didn't Techno get it? Why wouldn't he of all people understand? Technoblade, the mercenary, the blood god, the man who left bodies behind him like river rocks. He was a legend among men, a nightmare among armies, how could he not understand? Tommy needed this, he needed the victory. He needed to win, just _once._

Techno's eyes flicked back and forth, between Tommy and Schlatt, who was now silent and coughing, staring straight ahead. The truth of the statement must have stuck them both, because Schlatt's face seemed cave in on itself as he tried to locate them. Not at all the man who'd laughed on the podium at their retreating backs, ordering arrows and poison and pain. Who'd shoved poor Tubbo into an ill-fitting tailored suit, complete with a green tie. A mockery of his old shirts, his old style. 

Tommy had to repress the violent urge to laugh, because he had a vague sense that he wouldn't be able to stop. 

_(Wilbur was laughing, and laughing, and laughing, and Tommy couldn't seem to get him to take a breath of air in-between. The laughing turned to choking, then to sobs, but it kept going and going until the man passed out._

_Tommy felt like he was mourning, when he lifted Wilbur into his bed. He didn't know why. He refused to.)_

And then Techno was closer, and Tommy realized that the whirlpool of lava he'd thought was rage behind his eyes had cooled. The screaming heat of influence plunged into an ice bath, tempering it to a terrifying amount of regret; so strong and so raw that it suffocated him to peer into it. The hands that clasped his arms were too tight, near trembling from pressure, and Tommy had the awful realization that he didn't know where Technoblade came from. He didn't know where he'd gotten any of his titles. Not one. 

You see, stories had a way of getting around. It didn't matter if they were worlds apart, broken realms that drifted and floated away in the in-between. Stories fled through whispered cracks, though fleeing nations and the crackle of old fireplaces. The only stories that Techno had to his name were bloody and terrifying, shudders and fearful glances like he was some kind of fucking boogeyman. 

Tommy saw none of that now. Techno's eyes looked old. His eyes looked ancient as his shield fell away. Too old and aching and too regretful, near mourning, although what they mourned for was beyond him. If he hadn't known better, he would have almost thought it was for _him_ , and wouldn't that be insane? 

"Tommy," this time it sounded like a plea, "let go of the sword."

His grip slowly went slack, like a string had been cut and his fingers had turned to wood. Technoblade caught it before it could hit the ground, snatching it from the air by the hilt. The man looked at it for a moment that felt like forever, pink hair falling heavy in front of his face. It dripped from his crown like rivers of blood.

When Techno looked back up the ache had crumbled away, hidden behind a blank wall, and he let out a breath so heavy Tommy felt like he'd sink into the dirt. The air tasted like sorrow and relief. 

He reached out, slowly. The world tilted on its axis. 

"Techno..?" An arm on his cloaked shoulder. 

The man jerked a little, but he didn't shove Tommy's hand off. Instead, he pulled the iron sword out from the sheath and tossed it easily to the side. Tommy and Schlatt both winced at the loud _clang_ when it hit a stone wall and clattered to the floor. 

Techno's eyes closed. When he opened them again, the moment from before seemed to have entirely evaporated. He looked hollowed out in the center, the life sucked from his veins. His hand flexed around the hilt of his netherite sword, and Tommy felt his heart drop to his stomach. 

The expression was one he'd seen before, but never with as much painful insight as he did now. 

It was the look of The Blood God, preparing for his namesake. 

( _"I just want to be the good guy!" Cried a voice, distant and not of their own. "I just want to be an honest man!"_ )

Technoblade turned, gently pushing Tommy back. He leered back at the ram instead, petrified and silent, half the size he should have been. 

The Blood God turned in his place, and Tommy realized exactly why the expression had set back into place as he raised the sword to the heavens, grimacing like he was in hell. A promise made. A deal with the devil. Was that what they called their reluctant heroes, bathed in blood until they finally convinced themselves that it was all they ever wanted? 

Technoblade's swing was too strong to stop. The arc of it was set like stone, the bloodied work of the divine. There was no deterring those with power from completing their mission, not when it was attached to the word of the honorable. Tommy clenched his fists, and whispered a desperate plea for forgiveness to everything and nothing. Then he gripped it and yanked his pathetic begging away. 

He pled to nobody, instead stole the will to betray himself from the universe that seemed to overflow with it. It was his choice. Maybe Wilbur had been right. He would never be president, there was no nation to rule, no people to save, no world to make him a martyr.

But he could do this. 

He moved in a simplified mirror of Technoblade's own style minutes before, twisting his body and hoping to angle it correctly. He kicked out Schlatt's feet from under him, and Techno's sword lodged in wood instead of bone as the ram went crashing to the ground with a strangled scream, cut off halfway by his face meeting the dirt.

Techno spun, yanking his sword from the wood with eyes a bit too wide for rationality. He had already brought it back for another swing when Tommy shoved him with everything he had, feet planted in the grass and arms spread like an eagle. Techno's sword stuttered like a faulty machine, and the man physically shoved his own feet into the ground to launch himself backwards and keep the blade from grazing Tommy's skin. He skidded to a stop, sword still outstretched, missing Tommy by centimeters. His eyes were wider than Tommy had ever seen them. Incredulous, uncomprehending. Purely Technoblade, baffled and off guard. 

The Tommy of earlier years would have been elated. He would have cackled and cheered like mad, celebrating finally moving faster than the legend himself, if only for a split second. 

Tommy of the present wanted to vomit. He wanted to scream. He wanted to curse until the world died and then spit on its fucking grave, because it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he was standing in-between Technoblade and the man he wanted dead more than anything in the world.

But he couldn't let Technoblade do it for him. He couldn't let him do it, when the realization he had come to was so raw and bloody. He wasn't ready to make more mistakes. He wasn't ready to send Techno off like a mercenary, when he'd only just begun to wonder if he _chose_ anarchy, or if it was forced upon him. 

(He wasn't ready to be Wilbur. Not yet.)

He glared. He glared down at Schlatt even though he knew full well the man couldn't see. He glared, he shook, and finally—

" _AUUUGH!_ " 

He slammed his fist into the tree as the attempt at a scream ripped from his injured throat, louder than he'd been since the beginning of the end. It was still somewhat weak, rocky and closer to a wheeze than a shout. He slammed his fist into the tree Schlatt had been pinned against anyway. The tree that boasted Technoblade's cut, going nearly halfway through. 

Tommy punched the tree and he screamed as loudly as he could manage, but he did not kill Schlatt, even as his body wailed in every kind of agony. 

Tommy punched the tree and he screamed and he did not kill Schlatt, and he saved Technoblade from one more drop of regret, and that same god-damned part of him howled that it wasn't worth it. He strangled that part with the rage he wished he could use, hands useless and aching. He dug bloody fingers into the bark. 

On the ground below, Schlatt was frozen. To his left, Technoblade was bewildered. 

Above all of their heads, a bird cried out a wounded song, freer than Tommy would ever be. 

——-

+

——-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehe, scary Techno potion go brrrrrrrrrr—
> 
> I tried a new style of formatting with this chapter, I’m not sure if it was abundantly obvious. Kind of figuring out this ao3 thing as we go along.
> 
> Detailed Summary: 
> 
> After watching Technoblade rush out to meet the intruder, Tommy is shocked to realize that the intruder's identity is Schlatt. After a short period of conflict — and one use of a blindness potion later — Tommy reluctantly saves Schlatt before Techno can kill him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy made his choice, but that didn't mean he was at peace with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, literally a day ago: Don't expect the new chapter for a while, I'm not gonna keep such a consistent update schedule. 
> 
> Me now: Haha, new chapter go brrrrrrrr—
> 
> Outdated memes aside, I figured this chapter probably wasn't worth waiting a long time for. So here we go, have a bit of filler before things get chaotic again. As always any and all feedback is greatly appreciated, and your comments fuel me to write the next chapters at a quicker pace <3 
> 
> Please enjoy.

_The strangest thing about dreams was their temporary nature. A dream could drag on for years, bleed through time like merciless hours. You could spend decades there, fighting and laughing and crying and losing. You could live a lifetime, carving out a world built of your own imagination._

_And yet, you'd still wake up, and a paltry few hours would have passed. You'd wake up, after a lifetime, lived and left behind, and you'd be back in reality. Right back where you began._

\-----

+

\-----

Tommy didn't have a clue how long he spent there, leant on the tree trunk with his bloodied hands to either side. He didn't know how much time passed as he waited, heaving for breath and choking on the oxygen he gained. 

He was so tired. 

God, he was so tired. 

Footsteps. 

His gaze rose, so slowly it felt like he was drugged. Technoblade reached for his left hand, silent at his side with an expression he couldn't read if he tried. That was fine. He'd had enough of the soul searching for today, maybe for an entire lifetime. 

Instead of digging for meaning, he just let Technoblade examine his hand, winced when he prodded at it and furrowed his brow. Techno looked as exhausted as Tommy felt, but it was a fine line between abnormal and normal amounts of sleep deprivation for him. It was a line Tommy couldn't walk yet. 

"Wait here." 

The tone he was familiar with returned in full force, albeit tinged with something he didn't have the stamina to discover. He ducked his head and swallowed hard, trying to flush the taste of agony away. It didn't work. 

Techno got himself to his feet again, sheathing his sword and needlessly dusting off his pants. He looked like himself again in a matter of seconds, and Tommy envied nothing more than he did that. 

He watched from the corner of his eye as Techno stepped carefully around him, cloak shifting and flowing like a personified folktale. He half expected it to get caught in the leaves. He _would_ have expected it, if he hadn't known who Technoblade was. 

It seemed like that was the explanation for a lot of things, lately. 

Techno strode onward, walking without any sense of hesitation toward Schlatt. His expression was coated in steel, even though Schlatt had no way of seeing it. Tommy almost thought he'd kill him anyway, just push a blade through his chest and be done with it. It seemed like something Techno could do, if he wanted to. 

Techno reached down and grabbed a fistfull of Schlatt's torn collar, and lifted him up to eye level. A picture perfect scene for a threat, maybe. A snarled warning, a face off, a whispered account of bodily harm. Anything. Even blinded the danger in it must have bled through, because Schlatt seemed to stumble over nothing as he waited. 

Technoblade didn't do any of those things. He stared at an uncharacteristically silent Schlatt, unblinking eyes meeting unseeing ones. He yanked the man to his feet, and Tommy thought he'd tell the man to run for the hills. _Something epic_ , a younger, starry eyed part of him whispered, weak and pained but still persistent. _Something savage,_ an older, wearier part of him said, gently pushing down the bright eyed remains. 

_Something else,_ Tommy corrected. 

He didn't know who he was talking to. 

"Stand up." 

Techno's tone was flat, booked no arguments or room to joke. Schlatt was already far outside of his element, whatever the hell that element had become. He opened his mouth — did the ram know how to do anything else? — and suddenly Techno's axe was at his neck, like nothing had happened at all. Like Tommy wasn't knelt there, bleeding and exhausted after saving the man he wished would drop dead. He wasn't sure if that made it easier or harder to breathe, but he was sure as hell glad that Schlatt couldn't see him. 

"Don't say anythin'," Technoblade warned, "Don't test me, Schlatt." 

There was nothing special about the threat. Hell, Tommy was sure he'd read it in a book more than once. Straightforward and to the point, and yet Tommy would have sworn the temperature itself dropped from how pale Schlatt's skin grew.

Exactly what Tommy would have expected from a Technoblade threat, really. 

Schlatt's jaw snapped shut so hard that it made a popping sound, and Tommy had to suppress a defeated laugh at the idea that he'd broken a tooth. 

_He wasn't the only one who'd changed_ , he thought bitterly. The Schlatt from before, with his intact horns and cleanly tailored suits? That Schlatt would never have known when to shut up, even with Technoblade breathing down his neck like a moderately ruffled grim reaper. He would have smooth talked and snarked and made all kinds of sick offers, trying to coax Techno into doing whatever it was he wanted. 

Techno paused, and he turned to Tommy like he was looking for something. Tommy didn't know what he wanted, but whatever it was he was probably too tired to give it to him. 

Techno's eyes traced the path back to their base, gaze steady and sure. 

Tommy tried to imagine a path forward. He tried to plan — something he was never really cut out for — different routes for everything to go. He tried to cobble together an idea that went beyond "survive until tomorrow." 

His skull felt like it was made of lead, and he was so exhausted and in pain that he swore he was built of glass instead of bone. He didn't want Schlatt in their base. He didn't want Schlatt anywhere near here. But he also didn't want Schlatt anywhere near power. He didn't want Schlatt to stumble across unwritten borders, snarking and charismatic and dangerous. 

Tommy saw a lot of things, in that brief moment. He saw a possible new nation, crueler than the last. He saw Dream, smirking with betrayal coating his tongue. Ever the opportunist, ever the schemer. An omnipresent man with a smile nobody could see. 

He saw Schlatt, shaking hands and making deals. Moving forward. Moving _up._ The man was smart. He’d find a way. 

(“ _Schlatt knows,”_ a distant, maddened Wilbur ranted, “ _he’s a smart man. He knows that if we fight him, even if we_ beat _him, we’ve lost. If we fight him and he kills us, we’ve lost.”_ )

He couldn't let that happen. He could never allow that to happen ever again. 

Tommy looked up, met Techno's unflinching gaze, and nodded his head once. Barely even a dip. It felt like betrayal, and he tried to choke down his own despair, tried to crush it until the ache burned away into distant embers. (He'd been doing that a lot.) 

_Don't make him say it out loud. Don't make the betrayal_ real _._

In the name of small mercies, it seemed Technoblade understood what he was saying without it being verbalized. Tommy felt grateful and bitter all at once, and the paradox of it made his unsteady stomach churn like a whirlpool. 

Techno lightly kicked the toe of his boot against Schlatt's armoured legs, flat mouth opening with a blank stare. 

"Walk," he instructed, tone sharper than the axe-edge. 

Tommy couldn't help but feel a little bit vindicated when Schlatt did as he was told, face curling into a grimace as he moved blindly through darkness nobody else had to see. He looked like he was swallowing his tongue and choking on it, unable to quip or babble. There was no room for a silver tongue. Not when he was dealing with a man who already possessed gold. 

_That's it,_ a poisonous voice that sounded so familiar it ached, _that's what we felt. That's what he did to us._

The voice was comforting and painful, but it was enough to stomach watching Schlatt walk inside what should have been their safe zone. 

(Tommy was not a good liar, not even to himself. The new ache that settled in his skull had nothing to do with the pulsing pain in his knuckles.) 

Technoblade emerged from the cave and Schlatt was nowhere to be seen. That alone was enough to make Tommy's teeth clench and crush against one another, steel against a grindstone. It was a terrible habit. He didn't bother stopping. 

Techno sat down, cross-legged and gesturing for Tommy to do the same, then to face him. His expression was as smooth and apathetic as it had ever been, and the lack of emotional feedback ironically helped to cool Tommy's own thoughts. It was a little like trying to be angry at a brick wall, with Technoblade. It didn't work. There were no screaming arguments, no snarky superiority or condescending declarations about his intelligence. There were no responses, no reactions to feed the flames. As with any fire without fuel, the anger directed at Techno always died out. Misdirected anger would evaporate even quicker, a brief gust of wind at his back. 

Tommy needed that kind of apathy, right now. He soaked it in and tried to settle it where the emotions laid. It didn't smother it like he wished it would, but it let him breathe, and that needed to be enough. So, when Techno held out a silently expectant hand, Tommy let him prod at his bleeding knuckles and tried not to tug it away when it hurt. 

To his credit, Techno had gotten considerably better at the whole "healing" thing. At first, he hadn't seemed to understand the way healing potions worked for other people. He hadn't seemed to understand that yes, the injury was gone, but no, the phantom pains and the expectations of it were not. When Tommy had first asked him for bandages, Techno had furrowed his brow and looked at him like he'd gone crazy. 

(Or maybe that was the screaming. Tommy didn't really know.)

Either way, it was different the second time. Techno had a roll of mesh bandages set to the side, woven impressively from a blend of spider's silk and woolen fibers. Tommy remembered watching him work on it in-between shifts of tilling his potatoes. When he'd asked why in a mixture of single words and gestures, Techno had only shrugged. He hadn't looked up more than once from where he was threading spider's silk through the eye of a needle. He hadn't needed to. 

_("Figured I'd get somethin' more suited for bandagin'",_ _he'd mumbled._

 _And that had been the end of it. Their conversations were always short._ )

In the present, Tommy watched as Techno reached into a bag and dug out a shimmering potion bottle. Unlike whatever the hell experimental potion he'd used on Schlatt, the healing potion had a welcoming and warm glow to it, iridescent flecks swirling around like miniscule diamonds. 

He popped off the top and brought Tommy's hand closer, carefully dripping a bit of the potion directly onto the wounds. They closed almost immediately, skin patching itself up as the numbing magic smoothed some of the ache. 

_("Y'see," Techno explained, flat eyes sweeping over rows of prepared potion bottles, "using potions directly on vulnerable areas can be more or less effective dependin' on what they're meant for. Healin' is quicker when it doesn't have to get through your bloodstream, but it gets to less of the issues at once. Good for savin' supplies, not great for indirect stuff like internal bleedin' or broken ribs.")_

Once the skin was repaired, if a bit pink and raw, Techno reached for the wad of rolled up bandages. They stretched easily and tore carefully, so it was easy enough for Techno to wrap Tommy's hands like he was some kind of professional fighter. By the time he was done, Tommy felt like his hands were probably sturdier than when he'd started out. He flexed his hand into a fist and relaxed it again. No pain. 

"Tommy, we gotta talk." 

Techno's voice was low, quieter than it should have been even as he packed everything away. Tommy didn't know what to do other than match his pace, so he nodded instead of replying outright. It felt easier to fall into old habits, and he figured they earned the right to have a bit of comfort in the midst of… whatever the hell was going on. Techno took it in stride.

"Look," he said, "I've… er." He trailed off awkwardly before clearing his throat. That was something else that Tommy had realized. Technoblade, for all his terrorizing and all his strength, was awkward. It would have been funny, a long time ago. 

"I knocked him out, and I have more of the blindness potions, but that was the only fully functionin' one. So we have to figure out what we're doin' here." Techno was hardly ever unsure of anything. Seeing him hesitate made something flip uncomfortably in Tommy's stomach, stirring up the already uneasy discomfort that had made itself a permanent home. 

They couldn't just let the man go off and wreak havoc, but killing him wasn't an option yet either. 

Not yet. 

Tommy had gotten damn close in wars, but he'd never killed someone outright. He'd killed plenty of zombies, with their shambling groans and their contorted agonized faces, and he was sure it was similar enough in practice. He had been ready — he _thought_ he'd been ready, anyway. But he'd never had to push things to lethality before. It was something he'd gotten from Wilbur.

Key word being _gotten_ , from Wilbur. Past tense. 

Tommy squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed at them with his bandaged palms, discomfort welling up like bile in his already damaged throat. It felt like he was burning up from the inside, choking the senses he had until there was hardly anything left. 

_What were they supposed to do?_

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he peered up at Technoblade though threaded fingers. The man looked wearier than usual, the bags under his eyes more sunken and the dull background to his pupils more emphasized. Technoblade was at a loss, just as he was. Tommy wished he could find it comforting. 

He opened his mouth and tried not to wince as air chilled the ache of his throat. 

"We… we can figure it out later," He croaked. "Can't do it now. Too soon." 

Each word felt like dragging sandpaper up and through his sinuses, but he finished his choppy sentences coherently. He tried to convince himself that it was a win, because all they had were small victories now. There were no more wars to fight. 

Technoblade sighed, but Tommy knew even before he ran a hand over his face that he would agree. Neither of them were in any shape to be making plans. Not now. Not when they'd been so unprepared for a threat like this. 

They had arrows. They had weapons and bows, they had bandages and potions. (The latter was limited, because they had no way of getting to netherwart.) They had _Technoblade_ , the greatest of tactical strengths. 

They also had each other. The ragtag remains of a long dead rebellion.

(Tommy wasn't sure if that was a benefit or a detriment to their cause, but he knew damn well that it was the only reason he was still alive.)

They needed to decide, and they would. 

But for the time being Tommy needed a fucking nap, and Technoblade needed more of those potions on proper standby. 

Simple goals. 

Just for a moment, just for a split second, that was going to have to be enough. Tommy wasn't sure he'd make it without it. 

\-----

#

\-----

Tommy didn't sleep soundly that night. Of course he didn't, and Techno couldn't blame the kid if he tried. He was impressed he even managed to fall asleep at all. 

It was a fitfully uncomfortable rest. He could only watch as Tommy tossed and turned, mumbling things with varying levels of stress and urgency. His brow was always creased in anxiety, fingers twitching and body flinching away from a threat he had no hope of escaping. He looked hunted, even as he tried to rest. It was a feeling that didn't belong on a kid that young, much less someone Techno had seen before the impact of the wars. 

Techno did not often spare time for regret. It was a whirlpool, sucking you in and breaking you down until you could see the ghosts of past mistakes in every corner of the room. He could not — had not — afford himself that handicap. Technoblade was a man of action. A god of blood. Anything other than stagnant and regretful.

His gaze finally broke from Tommy, and he swept it over their cave. Their hovel, really. 

It looked the same as it had nearly twelve hours ago, rustic and low and covered by the treeline. The brewing stand before him bubbled and shook, pushed to its limits by his experimentation. It held his attention just long enough for his eyes to sweep over the cobblestone once, without pause. 

The second time, it was inevitable. 

His eyes were drawn to it, as they were drawn to every other threat he'd ever faced. It was something like an instinctual pull, knowing that something dangerous lurked below the surface. 

As a whole, it was just cobblestone. A set of blocks in an otherwise even cave wall, a small anomaly on a smoothstone surface. He could almost imagine it was just a patch job, something that covered up a weak spot or an old tunnel passageway. Something simple. Something that fit into their weird, unpredictable dynamic. And then he'd hear the echoed whispers from behind it, and the illusion shattered around him like a loop of breaking glass. 

His grip tightened around his trident, hands pausing in the work of polishing its surface. He set it aside, throwing the useless woolen cloth over his shoulder. The weapon hadn't been forged by his hand, but he had never been known to treat his weapons as unkindly as his adversaries.

He inhaled and exhaled slowly, like he could expel the conflict from his veins if he was meticulous enough with every breath. 

Of all the things he'd predicted, Schlatt's return was not even a remote possibility. He'd assumed that Wilbur, in his mad dash for anarchy without Technoblade's guiding hand, had ensured Schlatt would go in a blaze of horrific glory. Not out of respect, but of symbolism. (Techno's particular breed of anarchy had never been so sentimental. Perhaps that was why Wilbur had turned to Dream, with his big ideals and wide sweeping explosions. Technoblade's poison had always been simpler; in it for the chaos, and nothing more.) 

He'd expected plenty of things, most of which trailed back to the man clad in green, with his arms hidden beneath his large cloak that turned his silhouette into a pillar and the mask that turned his face into an emotionless weapon. During their skirmish Techno had found out just how much Dream could hide beneath it in battle, and though they'd left on almost amicable terms, Techno hadn't put it past him to attack when their forces were essentially non-existent. All was fair in love and war, after all, and Techno had years to become familiar with the latter. 

The point being, Techno had expected a frontal assault. He'd expected a manhunt, an attack built of weapons and wit and split second decisions against an opponent who would not fall. 

He did not expect a ghost with broken but familiar horns, solid beneath his boots. 

Schlatt was an outlier unlike anything Technoblade had ever fought against before. Certainly, he held his similarities — all dictators and governments did no matter what they said to the contrary — but he was different in the fact that he indulged him. Schlatt's capability for cruelty had allowed Technoblade a large amount of murderous wiggle room during their short contracts, and he paid well enough to line his pockets with gold. (Not that Technoblade would. Gold was not a good material for front line fighting.) 

Unlike Technoblade, Schlatt fought with his words. He fought with influence and presence, welding pieces of himself together and discarding others to create the perfect storm of power, whether or not he really had it. It could be intimidating, the pressure he applied. But in the end, Schlatt was just as unfortunately mortal as anyone. That was why Techno had presumed him dead, and that was why he was at a complete loss for what to do. 

Techno pushed his palms to his eyes, rubbing them and trying to see beyond the veil. 

Beside him, Tommy flipped over again, murmuring words that Technoblade tuned out as he stood. The cave was small, but if Tommy deserved anything, he deserved his privacy. 

Techno closed his eyes and he reached for his farming tools. They were running out of potatoes. 

\-----

+

\-----

There was a split second, every day, right before Tommy woke up. 

There was a split second, a moment that flashed by like lightning, where he didn't think about everything that had gone wrong. A snippet of peace, an echo of happiness. Ignorance forced upon him by biology rather than choice. 

He hated those moments more than anything in the world, even more than he hated Schlatt. He hated the hope, the fleeting, painful sensation of it all rushing back and drowning him in it's weight. He hated it so much that he wanted to never fall asleep again. Hell, if Technoblade didn't give him such chilling stares, he might have tried. 

He hated it, because forgetting meant he had to remember. He'd thought there was no way for it to get worse, for his sleep to crumble even further. 

He was wrong, he realized, when he woke up for the third time in the span of maybe two hours. 

Tommy pushed himself upright and tried not to groan. Whatever rest he'd managed to snatch from sleep's wretched claws melted away, crushed under the weight of undying anxiety. 

"Mornin'." 

Techno's greeting was the same as it ever was, accompanied by the almost comforting _shing_ of a metal against metal. When he looked, his mental picture lined up perfectly. 

Technoblade was leaning almost lazily against the far wall, sharpening the hair-thin edges of his blade. Tommy hadn't seen any visible damage done from when he'd skewered the tree, but it was probably just a precaution. 

Or a habit. 

Either way, Techno glanced up and gestured vaguely to Tommy's left. He looked, not that he really needed to ask what would be waiting there. 

A baked potato greeted him beside his bed like always, rested somewhat on a chilled bottle of clear water. Breakfast. 

Tommy wasn't hungry, but he reached for it. It wasn't for enjoyment; it was sustenance, eating was non-negotiable. It didn't make it taste any less like ash, and it didn't make it feel anything less like concrete paste as he swallowed, but at least the water was refreshing. He reluctantly admitted to himself that he always felt more human afterwards. 

Techno sheathed his sword and looked at him, lips pursed and grim. It was his default expression, most of the time. Tommy had a terrible feeling that resting apathy was not the reason for it now. 

Techno reached into the chest beside him. He pulled out two uncomfortably familiar dark potion bottles, one in each hand. The black, brackish liquid inside made Tommy's stomach churn around the little food he'd consumed, so he averted his eyes and opted to pick at the blanket fibers instead. 

"... You work fast, big man." His offered words were rough, weak around the edges from residual pain and hollow without the old cheer. He heard Technoblade huff. Whether or not it was because of the remark or the old nickname was beyond him. 

"Just doin' my job, givin' us some insurance."

Techno put them back where he'd gotten them, and Tommy was content not to ask. He didn't like those potions. They were wrong on a level that even poison potions weren't, with their swirling voids and uncomfortable warmth. When he thought about it too long, he saw the way it absorbed like fast running tar into Schlatt's skin. 

He shook the thought away and pointedly did not think about the fact that he'd been holding that bottle in his hands, that he had been seconds away from one unfortunate accident. Techno shut the chest, and Tommy found some small amount of comfort in the way it locked immediately into place. 

Whatever relief came from that was washed away quickly though, because Techno's expression stayed grim. His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, thumb grazing the jewel that sat on the end like it could be polished to a finer shine. 

"We have to figure out what we're doin' with him, Tommy." _Whether or not we're going to kill him_ , went unsaid. 

Tommy knew what he _wanted_ to do. He'd wanted the same thing for so long that he wasn't sure what else he could choose. He wanted Schlatt to die, because he was the source of everything that had gone so horrifically wrong. 

That was what he wanted. It was what Wilbur had wanted.

Tommy wanted Schlatt to die, because it was only due to his takeover that everything went to hell. 

( _He wanted it all to be over._

 _He wanted it all to be over so badly that it stung._ )

Tommy knew what he wanted. At least, he thought he did. 

Technoblade stared at him, waited for… something. An answer. A reply. Hell, if he was stretching it maybe even a command, and wasn't that just something? He'd gotten a kick out of that once, when it had been Techno, Tommy and _Dream_ , running with their backs to the enemy and a fish in a bucket as a hostage. It had been exhilarating, a rush of bloody adrenaline as he called for reinforcements that his adversaries would never have been able to defeat. Nobody died, but nobody needed to. They were just that good, and the joy of victory tasted like glory. 

It wasn't any of those things now, as he stared at Technoblade. The man behind The Blood God, with his exhausted eyes and twitching hands. With his promises and aching regrets that buried themselves alive until even Techno himself forgot their existence. Tommy clenched his wrapped fists in the fibers of the blanket that covered him, hands near trembling from the pressure. He couldn't protect anyone, before. He was too late, too loud. Too fast, too foolhardy. 

His gaze dropped and it felt like surrender. 

"... Just… just keep him in a fuckin' box," Tommy murmured bitterly, "he doesn't deserve to be free." 

( _"Tubbox! Tubbo in a box! Remember Tubbo in a box?"_

_"..."_

_"Tommy?"_

_"I remember. We have to go."_ )

The bitter nature of it fed into the weak embers of his old fire, but it exhausted itself as soon as it tried to burn, a sick memorial pyre he couldn't even keep lit. Tommy had only just woken up, and he wanted so badly to go back to sleep. It felt like he hadn't gotten a wink. 

Techno stared at him for a long time. The seconds ticked by to a clock that didn't exist, and Tommy tried not to flinch with every passing beat. He only tensed further when Technoblade moved, reaching behind him and pulling out a pickaxe. _The_ _Technodrill_ , he'd called it, before. Tommy had laughed when he found out, the absurdity of it a welcome breadth of levity. 

Now, he watched with unenthused eyes as Techno flipped the pickaxe once to catch it smoothly by the handle, slinging it over his shoulder. Techno paused and then unclasped his cloak, walking forward until he could drape it around Tommy's shoulders again. An echo of their first weeks. 

"Watch it for me," Techno said, turning on his heel. His pickaxe busted through the cobblestone like it was gravel, and Tommy watched as he vanished down the steps, pushing up his sleeves as he went. 

Tommy stared for a long time. 

Then he closed his eyes, and tried to go back to sleep. 

\-----

+

\-----

( _A version of himself sat on the foot of an occupied bed, grinning like mad at the setting sun with his best friend at his side. Music floated aimlessly over their heads, peaceful and comforting. An almost absurdly picturesque end to one of the most hilarious days of his life._

 _Tommy smiled, wondered aimlessly to himself if Wilbur would care that they'd broken the glass window. He shrugged it off. He'd just have to learn to live with it._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback fuels the authors my friends! The next chapter is shaping up to be really, and I mean REALLY long, so it's going to take a little while. I believe as of right now it's about 6,000 words.
> 
> Detailed Summary: Tommy copes with the fact that he saved a now unconscious Schlatt despite his better nature, and Techno begins construction on a prison cell.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy can't sleep with closure nipping at his heels, a ghost of the past slumbering beneath his bed. 
> 
> So he does what anyone would do. (What he would have done, a long time ago.) 
> 
> He goes to confront the beast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, turns out you can accomplish quite a lot if you focus on editing for hours at a time. This was probably the most efficient chapter I've ever written, and one of the longest. It's only outdone by chapter one, which sits at about 7,500 words. This one is only 7,100. I'd say not to expect this from me ever again, but I've been pretty bad at moderating my writing haha. Consider it an early halloween gift from me to you, dear reader. As for other updates, I took the liberty to finally center the little time dividers I put in each chapter, because they were bugging me a bit. 
> 
> And as always, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated, I always love seeing the reactions to my writing. It boosts my motivation tenfold to get the next one out ASAP. (Honestly, the feedback so far has turned me into a writing monster over the past week.) 
> 
> Without further ado, please enjoy the chapter — it isn't filler this time ;)

_The funny thing you see, about hope, was the fact that it was so terribly fragile and yet so terribly strong. Hope could shatter at the slightest touch of a traitor, could burst at the very look of loss. But hope, in the hands of those who deserved it, would turn into a weapon few dared comprehend._

_Nobody knew that better than him._

\-----

+

\-----

Tommy couldn't sleep. 

He wanted to, and god did he try. But no matter how many times he squeezed his eyes shut, his heart thudded too fast and too loud for him to sink into the exhaustion that tugged at his limbs. He couldn't sleep. Couldn't rest, not with the monster lurking nearby. 

He was so, so tired. It was like being a kid again, young and easily frightened of imaginary monsters that growled under his bed. Only this monster wasn't imaginary, wasn't an oddly set coat or a misshapen stack of papers and books. This time the monster was real, and it could _— had —_ hurt him. This time the monster had dug hungry claws in and dragged him under, smothering him in bad nightmares and worse memories. 

Tommy scrubbed at his face with his calloused and bandaged hands, and inhaled sharply enough that it felt like broken glass. The darkness behind his eyelids burst into vibrant color, and he recalled, with a sharp pain in his chest, a time when things had been simpler. Different, and yet the same. 

Wilbur used to sit up on the tops of their walls, once the war was done. His left arm had been bandaged and hung in a makeshift sling. He always sat right on the top, legs hanging off the edge and his back to their home. 

( _I thought you still had nightmares about being up here?"_ Tommy had joked one evening, the sky a deep punch red. Wilbur had looked at him with a sad smile, sadder than Tommy ever knew. 

_"I still do,"_ the Wilbur he remembered said, tall and orderly and _sane;_ _"there's no sense in cowering away from something that can't hurt you anymore, Tommy, but sometimes we just can't help it."_

Wilbur had spread his good arm out, and Tommy saw how his eyes sparkled with some kind of mirth.

_"Hence, the exposure therapy."_

_"Exposure therapy?"_

_"If I see this sunset enough times from our walls, one day I'll finally believe that we're safe."_ Wilbur had turned from him then, eyes locked on the setting sun. It looked like fire, tugged down into the depths of the earth as the moon rose at their backs.) 

Tommy hadn't known how to respond to that at the time, too high off their victory to truly absorb the implications. They'd gotten out of the war on the winning side — the right side of history, every single one of them alive. Sure, his bandaged shoulder ached where an arrow had been launched. Sure his disks left a painfully empty space that he didn't like to look at. But that wasn't important. They'd _won._ Wasn't that all that mattered? All that they needed? 

(Tommy had never wanted to believe he was naive.) 

No, Tommy of the past hadn't known what Wilbur meant, even as he sat down beside him and set a heavy hand on his shoulder. He hadn't understood, no matter how much he wanted to. No matter how much he genuinely cared. He hadn't truly understood what Wilbur meant. Not until he lost him to the madness that none of them had known was there. 

Tommy of the present thought mournfully that he understood now. 

He understood the strength it took, facing the fears that haunted his dreams in the hopes of them finally fading to the background. 

Tommy of the present pushed himself off the bed and set Techno's cloak to the side. It dwarfed him too much, the shadow of what it represented tall enough to drown in.

_There's no sense in cowering from something that can't hurt you anymore, Tommy, but sometimes we just can't help it._

He hung onto the words like a vice and hung on to his axe even tighter.

Tommy made his way down the steps, and tried not to feel like he was descending into hell. 

+

The tunnel was too narrow, too cold, and far too deep. Tommy grimaced, ducking past lower ceilings and squeezing past torches hung a bit too far apart. Techno seemed to forget that not everyone had improved senses, but Tommy wasn't gullible enough to convince himself that it was the source of his unease. Tommy hadn't been afraid of mobs for a very long time. The setup of the tunnel wasn't any different from how their actual mine had started, yet it somehow felt far more suffocating. It felt like the walls were trembling with anticipation to crush him alive. 

(Tommy was still not a good liar. Tommy knew exactly _why_.)

The tunnel grew colder the deeper he went, and he took a moment to reflect on its absurdity. Tommy had long since grown used to Techno's particular brand of overachievement, but even he — with the rational part of his brain — could admit that it was excessive. The chill almost seemed to swirl, counteracting the brief warmth of the torches with impossible winds and whispers. He was beginning to regret not bringing Technoblade's cloak, but there was a decent chance that if he went back up, he'd never go back down. He couldn't afford that hesitation, so he rubbed at his exposed arm with his free hand and continued on. 

His steps echoed uncomfortably loudly, even with their worn out rubber soles. He was glad he hadn't worn his boots. The sharp wood of the heel would have been like cymbals crashed against a gong; too much noise, too little space. 

He half expected something to meet him between each flickering torch, and the anticipation made him antsier than he should have been. His fingers twitched around the axe handle, but the memory of Technoblade's presence was enough to force him to relax, even if he couldn't get himself to let go of it completely. He was not going to swing like an intruder at Technoblade because of his own creeping paranoia. 

He'd been on the receiving end of that kind of paranoia with... 

Well. The near misses always felt like terror had been forcefully injected into his veins. 

The most frustrating part? There wasn't even a need for the apprehension that made his blood boil and run. There was absolutely fucking nothing to be afraid of. Even when Schlatt had been at the height of his power, Tommy should have been able to take him out at any point. Wilbur's pacifism seemed determined to prevent that for a long time. 

( _Not long enough, the hypocrite.)_

He had no reason to think a healthy and well guarded Schlatt posed a threat to him, much less his battered and starved counterpart. There was absolutely no need for his hands to keep shaking. There was no need for his breath to come in short bursts, too tense to inhale deeply enough to fill his lungs. 

There was no need for him to be so fucking _terrified._ He exhaled, and tried to imagine that the crushing feeling left with it. 

"Tommy?" 

He stiffened, hand flying to his weapon on instinct. Luckily enough for both him and his dignity, Technoblade grabbed him by the shoulder and kept his hand down. 

"What're you doin' down here?" Techno's brow pinched at the center, even as he backed up to give Tommy a little breathing room. Tommy's throat closed up a little, and he took a few unfortunate seconds before he could choke out his words. 

"I wanted to see, I guess. See for myself." 

It was the truth, Tommy realized. He needed to see it to believe it, even though he already knew. He needed to see Schlatt, completely unable to… hurt him? Was that even the right word? 

The dawn of understanding on Techno's face was almost comical, a minute change in facial expression and a shift of his stance so small it was barely noticeable. Tommy still found a little pride in knowing how to tell that he relaxed, at least as much as Technoblade could manage to. Techno shuffled to the side, tugging down his rolled up sleeves. It seemed it hadn't really done much, since a fine layer of stone dust coated him anyway. A side effect of mining, he supposed. 

"Makes sense," Techno sighed, "want me to stick around? Or…?" 

"Stay," Tommy said, wincing at how quickly he replied. The crack of his voice didn't help either. He tried to temper it; "Just for a bit." 

It probably didn't work, but one of the best parts about Techno's micro-expressions was that judgement didn't pass easily. Short of absolute unfathomable stupidity, Techno didn't react to much in any major ways. Even for someone like Tommy who'd spent more time around the man than not, it was a conscious effort to glean most of his unspoken thoughts. Techno shrugged without a word of protest, and his pickaxe vanished in a small swirl of light. _Back into the item-space_ , Tommy used to joke. Tommy wasn't often in a joking mood anymore. 

"I'll take you to him." Techno hummed, "not that far a walk anyway, and I need my other pickaxe." 

At least Tommy wasn't making him walk back and forth for nothing, but the comfort of it was trivial at best. Techno started moving, and Tommy had little option other than to follow. It was either that or stand alone, and Techno's unflinching apathy was an embarrassingly effective mollifier. 

Even so, it was mostly thanks to his weeks of silence that he refrained from mentioning that the walk _down_ was pretty long in itself, way farther than he'd originally guessed. It made sense in theory; keep the man out of sight and far out of mind, make it harder to gauge how to escape. But still, the winding corridors and too far torchlights gave it all an almost dungeon-like aura, and Tommy felt trapped even without being on the other side of the metaphorical bars. His thoughts rattled like turbulence against his skull, even as the odd hallway opened to a larger floor. He didn't even have the presence of mind to note it, or the pillars that were left tactically to support the ceiling. 

_He could leave whenever he wanted,_ he reminded himself firmly. _He wasn't trapped here. He wasn't the captive, he held the fucking key._

The walk took mere moments, but it somehow managed to drag into years when Tommy's eyes were drawn to a break in pattern where the smooth stone abruptly met stone brick. It was absurd the way he paused, far before they even got close enough for it to matter. Even when he could bring himself to look his brain seemed to rebell, focusing on every unnecessary detail. 

_It's so… clean_ , he thought belatedly, _there's even a bed. A fucking_ bed _._

Aside from that though, there really wasn't much to see. The room was unbearably clean, simple and colorless with a total of six torches, two on each closed wall. Even the bedsheets were a sterile white without the influence of dyes. Or… they would have been anyway, if the figure resting on top of them wasn't coated in a considerable layer of dirt and old blood. Schlatt looked like hell, more so than he already had the day before, and Tommy couldn't help but wonder if that was old bruises coming up to the surface or the doing of the man at his side. 

It was probably the former. Techno, while violently capable and terrifyingly competent, didn't usually make a show out of sadism. It was anarchy for anarchy's sake with him, and there was no sense in causing trouble when they were the only ones around. The point of anarchy, Techno had said once, was the fallout. 

It would help a little though, seeing Schlatt passed out and out of his element, wouldn't it? Out of the stolen podium, out of the stolen white house. 

Off of their stolen stage. 

Tommy remembered with painful clarity the terror that had struck him, the sound of ricocheting arrows sticking the ground near his heels. He remembered the fear and the rage and the painful hopelessness as L'Manburg fell to embers, as he bandaged Wilbur's injured arm. The left, in some sick mirror of better times. He gritted his teeth and reached for the bars, hands tightening around them like a vice. 

He remembered the agony of watching the walls fall by a man who didn't understand them; of hearing Schlatt's echoing laughter that sunk into his chest and dragged Wilbur down before he could reach for him. He remembered seeing Wilbur the day he lost him, the day Schlatt tilted his scale until he tipped over and went off the deep end, babbling about villains and monsters and good and evil. He hadn't known he lost Wilbur back then. He hadn't realized until it was far too late. 

Maybe he was expecting that. The man in a tailored suit and a terrifying smile, pointing weapons at their backs and orders at their old comrades. Expectations were the soul of hope. Against all odds, maybe he was expecting to find the monster from his nightmares, caged up and forever unable to dig in his claws. 

Tommy didn't find him. Not in that cell. 

Schlatt looked frustratingly, impossibly human, save for the typical animalistic traits like the ears or horns. Vulnerable even, bruised up and beaten as he was with his terrifying yellow eyes closed to the world. There was no intimidating shadow of a dictator in that cell. There was no sharp suit, no fanged smile. Nobody who sneered at Tommy and made jokes about the world he'd been meant to take back — meant to protect. Who decimated their flag and hung up a stone moniker like a sick gravestone. He knew that was Schlatt's doing, no matter how much Wilbur insisted with maddened laughter that it had been Fundy alone. 

(That flag had been the only thing standing, still stiffly marking the rubble Tommy saw every time he closed his eyes.) 

It was so quiet, with Technoblade at his back and an unconscious Schlatt trapped behind iron bars. 

It was quiet. 

It was so, fucking _quiet._ He couldn't bear it. 

Techno spoke like he could hear him, jarred Tommy from his thoughts like a physical barrier. Not for the first time, Tommy was glad for Technoblade's oddly impeccable timing. 

"He's gonna be wakin' some time soon," the pig-man sighed as he scratched at his head, "didn't hit him hard enough to keep him down forever." 

It was an apology as much as it was a thank you — that is to say it wasn't either one — and Tommy didn't know what to do with a Technoblade who could express both. His traitorous lips refused to part, and the silence leaped at the opportunity, expanding and contracting and filling up the space that had been meant for words. They stood there in silence for just a bit too long — stared just a bit too hard. 

Tommy choked on it, his quiet forcefully twisted from willful to mandatory as his nerves began to buzz again, that dreadful mixture of noise and silence that brought him right back to the moment _before._ Right after Dream pressed that button and right before everything blew to hell. The silent, ever encroaching cutoff. The balance to the explosion. 

The wretched, fucking _quiet._

The floor turned to waves and his vision turned to static, the ringing too loud and the silence too deep. 

What did he want from this? What had he sought from this that he couldn't quite grasp?

What was he doing here?

_Why did he think this was a good idea?_

A hand on his shoulder. A shock of bright pink hair and a gleaming golden crown. He blinked and he was suddenly again on solid ground, Techno staring at him with his ever lax eyes. 

"Where do you want to go, Tommy?"

His tone was patiently neutral, and Tommy had no idea if he'd asked the question already. When he met Techno's eyes he didn't repeat it, but that could have just been because he knew that he'd heard. Tommy opened his mouth anyway, consciously kept his gaze away from the cell. 

"... I want to go back upstairs." 

He let himself be pushed back, Techno's calloused hand at his shoulder blade gently urging him forward on unsteady feet. He let himself be led up and past the torches, past the cobblestone and the brick. 

"Tomorrow," Technoblade said. Not a question, not quite. 

"Tomorrow," Tommy agreed after a beat of silence, weakly. 

Tomorrow was another day. But for now, Techno pressed a brand new pickaxe into his hands and told him to look for iron that they didn't need. Tommy turned on feet he couldn't feel, hammered into the stone with an energy he didn't have. 

It wasn't fine. But it would be. It had to be. Once Schlatt was awake, he would make himself see. Schlatt may not look exactly the same, but he was still the beast of Tommy's nightmares. 

He had to be. 

+

Tommy did not go the next day. 

Tommy did not go the day after. Or the day after that. 

Techno didn't push him. He offered what he always did, instead. Routine, understanding woven into the threads that made up his bandages. Techno adhered to his routine as he dug out new tunnels, he adhered to his routine as he hollowed out the space for a second floor of their farm. Tommy stayed stagnant, and tried to ignore the burning at the backs of his hands. 

_One more moment,_ he pleaded to nobody, _one more day._

Betrayal followed him everywhere he went, whispering poison and flicking away reason with every passing breath. 

He would go tomorrow, but tomorrow was not today. It was not today. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. 

He needed to go. 

He was afraid to go. 

He wanted to go. 

He wanted to stay.

He dug tunnels and planted potatoes and he tried to push the thoughts away, waiting for tomorrow to never come. He focused on Techno, clinging to the routine. To the mundane. He focused on Technoblade and averted his eyes whenever he walked toward cobblestone, a single baked potato and a bottle of water balanced in his arms. He averted his eyes until the cobblestone was back where it belonged, and he rinsed out the empty bottles that Techno brought back from the ground. He averted his eyes, and carefully did not acknowledge how Techno left the passage wide open on each venture down. 

He could only parlay for so long. He knew that. And yet, still, he was struck dumb by it's sudden urgency as Techno spoke. 

"We're runnin' out of enderpearls," he sighed, "I'll get more tomorrow." 

He tried not to display the way the words struck him like a physical blow, the way they stripped his calm from him until he was reeling and helpless. 

The feeling lasted until the next day, bled through like a saturated sponge. Techno had looked at him strangely, right before he closed the door behind him. 

He had looked at him like Tommy was a puzzle, and Tommy had pasted on his best casual smile and waved him away, and Techno's brow had only furrowed farther. Tommy's grip on the royal cloak grew tighter, hidden beneath the veil. 

"I'll be back before evenin'," Technoblade said. A promise. A reassurance, even, coated in stability and calm. Tommy nodded his head and knew full well that it didn't matter at all. 

Tomorrow had come at last, infected today and pulled it into its grip. 

+

He ventured down with a torch in his hand, sparking and flurrying with undying magical energy. The warmth of it did nothing for his nerves, but Tommy was no longer the boy who learned nothing from his mistakes. So, he brought a torch. 

The passage opened wide into the same cell he'd seen the first day, with one glaring difference. 

"Lunchtime already, Technoblade? What, did you miss me that—?" 

Schlatt turned to meet his eyes, and Tommy felt his entire body go ice cold. Schlatt's words cut off entirely at the end, strangled to silence by surprise. 

They stared for longer than Tommy wanted, unflinching yellow meeting flickering blue. Tommy's brain stuttered and froze, spitting out useless details like he could drown out the steadily growing thunder of his own panic. 

Schlatt looked bedraggled, hair slightly longer than it used to be, falling in heavy strands around his head. His horns were nearly buried by it, and the tip of the left had still not grown back. 

His old dress shirt still looked ripped at the collar, singed at the edges and rolled up at the sleeves. Like Tommy had first suspected, the tie and blazer were long gone. His dress slacks were wrinkled and torn at the hems, stretched a bit too far like a zombie had dug in their fingers just a bit too late. His left hand was buried in his pocket. 

He was a mess, and he was completely undefended. No armour, no sword. 

Not the silhouette from his nightmares. 

"Well." 

Tommy was yanked back to the present, and he gripped the torch to stabilize himself. Schlatt's smile fell from his face like a mask, and he suddenly looked even more exhausted than Tommy would have guessed. Exhaustedly, pointlessly human. 

"Honestly Tommy, I thought gloating was too low for you. But hey, look at you now am I right?" 

Schlatt sneered with his lips pulled up so far Tommy could nearly see his gums, and yet it didn't look right. It didn't look the same. Tommy felt the dichotomy of it boil his blood, and Schlatt kept prattling on like Tommy didn't already know better. 

"I mean really, what do you have to gain by coming down here? You've won already, let it go." 

Schlatt paused. There was a flash of something, gone as quickly as it had materialized in front of him. A second shadow that blended into the first. 

"Well. If _won_ meant you blew up my entire fucking city, that is." 

"It wasn't your _country_ ," Tommy spat, corrective and venomous. He startled himself by the speed of his own reply, even more so by the steady tone of his voice. It was ragged and scratchy, but it came out firm. 

"It was," Schlatt said, oblivious, "I won your election, Tommy. Fair and square." 

"You won because of an underhanded deal," he snapped. 

"I won because of a fairer deal than the one you tried to make, and that you both agreed to." Schlatt's expression shifted for a moment, for a split second merging to what he saw on that wretched stage. It vanished as quickly as it appeared, and Tommy felt his retort stick like burrs in his throat. 

( _"You're using me!" Quackity had stumbled back from the weight of the realization. Wilbur said nothing to the contrary, and Tommy could only avert his eyes._ )

Tommy shoved his thoughts aside with as much vigor as he could muster, clinging to the spark of conflict. "L'Manburg was ours, we fought for our independence!" 

" _Manburg_ was never yours to own," Schlatt sneered, "did you even see half the shit I did, Tommy? Half the things that changed? Or were you too busy looking for ways to throw a temper tantrum for something that didn't go your way?"

"I saw you raise taxes, I saw you burn down our fucking flag!" 

"I raised taxes on an actively destructive member of Manburg as a warning," Schlatt yanked his hand free and something fell from his pocket. "How was I meant to function when there was active sabotage to my rule?"

"Your _rule_ — You should have never become the president at all!" 

"You're such a fucking child, Tommy." Schlatt scoffed, and Tommy wanted to rip out his fucking hair, "you're the reason I came back to begin with!" 

"Because we _trusted_ you!" Tommy spat, "we thought—" 

"That you could rig an election and manipulate your people into believing they had a choice? Oh yeah, sounds real fair, well done mister vice president." Schlatt reached for the bars, clenching one in a tight fist and forcing his face into a smile so false it appeared to be plastic; "The only reason you had an issue with this is because you didn't win. And hey! It's not like I'm judging. I would have done the same thing." He leaned in. "But don't get up on a high horse just because you failed first." 

His tone was low, accusatory and soaked in so much bitterness behind the smile that Tommy felt the sting. He moved to retort, but—

But Schlatt wasn't _wrong_ , and that was the worst part of it all. He clenched his jaw and balled up his free hand into a fist, but he didn't have a fucking _answer,_ and it wasn't from lack of trying _._

Schlatt was a terrible president, and that was a fact he knew was true. He was cruel, he was greedy, he was everything Tommy had come to despise. He thrived on the suffering of other people, laughed near if not maniacally when they stumbled and fell. He shoved Nikki into prison when she protested against him, he booted them from their own country and laughed when the arrows struck. He tore down the walls that they'd built, pushed at borders and threatened another war. 

( _There was TNT beneath the stage, wired up and traced to every seat below._ _Everyone was in danger, and he was acting like he was on top of the fucking world. Tommy had never seen Wilbur so carefree in his entire life — he'd never seen him so manic, so close to tipping right off the edge._ ) 

Tommy threw his torch to the ground and crushed it beneath his foot. 

Maybe it was a virtue of that motion that led him forward. An act of cruel fate, ever bitter and blind. Because as he stared at the dying embers beneath his feet, his gaze caught on a shock of vibrancy. Two lumps of cloth, fallen just behind Schlatt. Fabric scraps. 

Schlatt followed his eyes. Tommy knew exactly when Schlatt saw them, because he stiffened like stone and the false smile slid off his face like it had been greased by oil and thrown into water. His hand slid down from the bars and he pushed off, crouching to snatch the offending objects from the floor. 

Ties. 

Two scorched, colored ties. A shock of ocean blue, a splatter of natural green. 

"What are those, Schlatt." 

Not a question. It should have been, it should have been a fucking question but it wasn't, and they both knew exactly why. Tommy's voice was flat, the edge of tempered steel. His fingers gripped the bars until they grew white knuckled, but his eyes were locked on the two scraps of shimmering fabric, sap green and royal blue. 

( _"What are you wearing?" He scoffed incredulously. Tubbo gave a suffering sigh and tugged at his collar, tailored and tight and all too similar to Schlatt and Quackity._

 _"Manburg dress code," Tubbo explained, "at least I got to pick the tie."_ )

" _Schlatt._ " A demand. Not a question, still not a question. It wasn't a question, and the implication bled into the room until the air itself tasted of non-existent iron and sulfur. Schlatt said nothing at all — like he was somehow above it — and Tommy watched as his scarred hand closed right around the center of the fabric, pinching them in the middle like the rest was liquified and flowing out past his palm, expensive and impossible. 

Tommy felt his rage, old and weary but still going strong, bubble up like the beginnings of an eruption. He grabbed the bars with both hands now, and shook them with wild abandon. 

"Answer me Schlatt, what the fuck are you holding!?" 

He didn't need to ask. He knew he didn't. But the gall, the absolute gall — the horrific implications, how _dare he_? Like it was anything but a disgusting keepsake. And the bastard still wouldn't look up, staring at the scraps with eyes that Tommy couldn't see. 

" _You bastard,_ " he snarled, lip curled and body near trembling. He shook the bars again in his useless wretched hands, the sound echoing like an air horn in the cell, and still Schlatt didn't look up. Still didn't meet his eyes, like he couldn't hear him at all. Tommy wanted to yank the ties away and choke him with them. He wanted to rip the ties into shreds. He wanted to press the ties into a bookmark. He wanted to burn them to cinders. 

He wanted Tubbo's tie out of Schlatt's fucking hands. 

"How dare you mock him that way!" He roared. He couldn't open the door. His strife had nowhere to go but metal bars, gaps far too small for a hand to press through. 

He felt the shift. He felt it when Schlatt was looking at him, piercing yellow eyes stealing shudderingly perceptive glares into his soul. His gaze was made of daggers, sharp enough to cut from a distance, and that? That was the man who'd exiled Tommy from his own country. That was the man he'd been looking for, volatile and selfish and everything Tommy despised. That was the man who flicked golden coins into the eyes of his enemies, who grinned like a fucking shark when they begged for small mercies. He found him at last, the monster from his memories, and Tommy couldn't feel any less victorious, because Schlatt stormed up closer to the bars again with his teeth bared, almost feral with his own brand of unjustified fury. 

"Mock him?" Schlatt thundered with far more venom than Tommy thought him still capable of; "Is that what you think I'm fucking doing, Tommy? You think I'm _mocking_ them?" 

"Oh gee, I wonder," he countered bitterly, dripping sarcasm like poison from his teeth. He was riled and vengeful and so angry that it ached, and that was _good_. As long as he was angry, he wasn't going to break. You couldn't shatter melted glass, not while it was molten and too dangerous to touch. As long as he was angry, his hands shook from agitation instead of grief. 

"Tubbo's dead thanks to you, you know that? And you still have the balls to pretend like you care? You forced him to abandon us to prove a fucking _point_!" 

"I gave him more than anything your shithole of a country ever could have," Schlatt snapped back, "you were on the ropes already, doomed from the start! What did he even have with you? Half a blown up house? Dying bees? Give me a break!" 

Tommy felt the pressure behind his eyes increase and tremble like steam, building up higher and higher until he felt like his eyes would pop like repugnant balloons. His teeth ground so tightly against one another that he swore he'd cracked his jaw, and he couldn't give less of a fuck if he tried. 

"Don't pretend like you cared for a _second_ about what Tubbo wanted. Don't you dare." His voice was nearly inaudible, choked by his urge to scream. Tommy's entire body was trembling, fingers white from the pressure against the unforgiving metal of Schlatt's prison. Every syllable was strangled, agony seeping in toxic veins. He slammed himself forward, and the bars gave an almost dangerous creak. Schlatt stumbled back a step, but Tommy barely noticed. 

"You never gave a damn about him! You ran him into the fucking ground, and for what?! To get in the head of an already dying revolution? To get Wilbur to crack?" He laughed, high and mad, so dry he felt like his lips could chap and crack from the effort. 

"Well congratulations, because the only reason Tubbo died is because you were too far up your own ass to save him. You have no right to even be _alive_ , you bastard!" 

Tommy hadn't spoken that much in what felt like a lifetime, but the words burst from him like water from a broken kettle, spilling and soaking everything in verbal bile and haunting grief. There was no time to think, no time to cobble together words that would actually hurt. The ache of his throat was trivial, the expended effort not even a blink. His hands screamed when he slammed them — opened palmed — against the cool surface of the stone walls, near hysterical with the injustice of it all. (When had he turned away from the cell? How had he gotten to the other side of the room?)

"Why the hell was it you, huh? Why did you get out of that deathtrap and Tubbo didn't? What gave you the right?" 

He ranted to a man he couldn't see — a man that didn't reply, not even when he hurled aching fists against the wall for a second time, like the stone would crack instead. Schlatt said nothing, even when Tommy's voice rose a pitch, cracking like a whip at its height before breaking down the center, shattered glass and fever pitch and shaking like a leaf. 

"What kind of sick fucking joke is that, Schlatt, huh? Tell me!" 

Tubbo, with his bright eyes and stupid jokes that maintained even after the war. 

Tubbo, with his affection for bees and his plans for a huge garden that would overlook their home. 

Tubbo, with his books and his plans. With his pufferfish and his cookies, piling up in stashes besides his brewed potions and brand new tunnel systems. 

Tubbo, who'd been so ready and so supportive, even whilst juggling double agent job after double agent job.

Tubbo, who'd held out his stolen disks and offered to run with him.

Tubbo, who'd looked so, so tired now that Tommy had all the time in the world to look. Tubbo, who had bags hanging low under his eyelids and stifled more yawns than he did laughter. 

Why had Tubbo shrugged and smiled when Tommy refused to run away with him, nodded and traded real and counterfeit disks in exchange for yet another promise instead? Why had Tommy opted to chase after Wilbur, convinced he could tear him away from the ledge?

Had Tommy simply been that cocky? Was that his vice? His own convictions, garish in their strength to the point where he couldn't see beyond his own blind devotion? 

By the time Tommy realized abruptly that he wasn't shouting anymore, the momentum dropped off the edge before he even had a chance to scramble and save it. 

What he did know was that it hurt when a sob tore from his damaged, useless throat, and it stung when his barks of rage turned to jagged cries as he tried to pick up the shattered pieces. None of them fit together the way they should have, his bygone composure melted the edges until it was a puzzle he couldn’t fix. When he tried to spit his venom, it came out as pain, and he hated it. He didn't want to _cry,_ not in front of fucking Schlatt. 

"It isn't fair," he choked anyway, voice wobbling hatefully in the air like it was being woven into a repulsive song; "it isn't… it isn't _right._ Why did it have to be him?" 

Why did it have to be Tubbo, with his bright smiles and weary eyes?

Why did it have to be Tubbo, with his lighthearted jokes and gentle prodding for Wilbur to get some sleep? Tommy's Tubbo, with his gentle smiles and 'what can you do' shrugs when the man who'd stolen Wilbur's face inevitably snapped at him, called him a traitor only to send him right back off to work. 

Tommy's best friend was dead and gone, and Tommy missed him. He missed him, and he hadn’t even gotten a chance to say goodbye. 

Grief tasted different than rage, even if the anger was merely a shadow. Without it the iron and clash of steel, his sorrow tasted like gunpowder, the ache deep instead of shallow. It was like the pain had been hotwired from his chest, and even though he had been healed it felt like he was bleeding out on the floor. He let the grief pour out with it and almost hoped that he'd drown, curling into himself with his back pressed to the wall. Maybe if he pressed hard enough, he’d sink into the stone and never emerge again. 

He didn’t know how much time passed like that, sludge poured down an ill fitting drain. It could have been minutes, or hours. Seconds or days. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Tommy missed his best friend, and he would never see him again. That was the only thing that mattered, and it was the only thing he wished he could unhear. Tommy's fingers twitched, reaching up to his shoulders only to meet the cuffs of his shirt. 

He'd left the cloak upstairs. 

+

Tommy was rooted in place, long after his tears had tried to stiff salt tracks. Schlatt hadn’t spoken a word. 

_Small mercies,_ a tauntingly cruel part of his brain echoed. 

_Pity,_ whispered another, _somehow, someway, you're the pitiful one now._

Tommy's hands were growing tired of aching. He was tired of wrapping them up, sipping health potions and wincing at the sting of touch. He flexed his hands hesitantly, but the relief he gained from realizing he hadn't broken them was a weak and trembling thing. Barely a whisper before it dissolved into nothingness. 

He hadn't really been thinking about it, not since the very beginning. He hadn't wallowed in it — he'd swallowed down the grief and the mourning and stuffed it all into a box unfittingly labeled hatred. Unfittingly labeled rebellion. The grief tugged heavy at his exhausted bones, spilled at last from the mislabeled box, and it almost felt like going back to ground zero. 

Stories made a big deal about the breaking of silences. He learned that one day when he was reluctantly reading one of Tubbo's favorites out loud, at the boy's pestering grin. Tubbo had been so uncharacteristically insistent as he shoved the tome into Tommy's hands, so gleefully pleased when Tommy rolled his eyes and cracked open the cover. 

Tommy was never a writer. Not the way Tubbo was, when he'd viciously tear through storyline after storyline, crafting ideas from nothing and scribbling them down too, spelling mistakes and all. Maybe that had been why Tubbo always had a plan — always had a second idea for if the first went wrong. Tommy's first idea had been to see the prisoner that they'd made out of Schlatt, borne of his desperate need for closure. There was a reason Tommy had never been the one who thought of making presidential tunnels, or swiftness potions, or invisibility.

The point was, stories made a huge deal of the differences between silences. Comfortable, painful, awkward and the like. It was something Tommy only began to understand recently. 

_When it was too late to share_ , his brain whispered. Tommy didn't even have the energy for a retort. 

"I found bees in the office, once." 

Tommy peered up from his hands in time with the snapping break of the ice. He moved with as subtle of a motion as he could muster to peer up. Schlatt's voice was the flattest that Tommy had ever heard it be, lacked all the sharp edges and spiteful smugness. 

The ram-horned man sat on his bed with his back to the wall, one knee pulled up closely enough to rest his arm on it. He wasn't looking at Tommy at all, eyes trained on the fabric in his hands; the only dots of color in his cell. He spoke aloud like he was talking to nobody, maybe not even to himself. 

"I was just trying to get some paperwork or some shit. Quackity… He told me it was in Tubbo's office, but when I opened his drawers it was like Tubbo'd been keeping a colony. Quackity laughed, the idiot."

Schlatt's neutral expression twisted into something that made Tommy's stomach turn, so ducked his head back down, bitter heart squeezing so tightly that he wasn't sure if he was breathing at all. He wanted to tell Schlatt to shut the fuck up, that he didn't care, didn't _want_ to know what Tubbo had done when he hadn't been with them, safe in Pogtopia. 

_Safe?_ A sneer of incomprehensible disgust that sounded too much like Wilbur — too much like the man who'd looked like him. _Is that what you think it was?_

In the end those words stuck in his windpipe too, so Schlatt kept talking uninhibited.

"Tubbo looked scared out of his mind when I asked. Looked like I was gonna shoot his puppy or something. Er. His bees." A dry, painful bark of a laugh. It sounded nothing like haunting cackles that had followed a desperate escape, but Tommy felt it ring like a bell in his ears anyway. His grip around his legs grew tighter, like he could block it out if he was small enough. Still, his traitorous ears listened. Clung to the words and built an image to match. 

"I guess he thought I was just that much of a dick, because he started stuttering. Told me that it was just for a little bit, that he was scared they'd drown or die. I asked him if he was getting any honey from the things. Really I just didn't want him to start begging me." 

A shifting sound, the creak of a headboard and the bounce of a spring. Distantly Tommy figured Schlatt must have moved, because his voice sounded slightly different, like it was coming from another angle. 

"I told him, if he wanted to keep the bees that was fine. But if he could get honey out of them, that'd be even better. Everyone likes honey. We could sell it, package it, whatever. He got a shitton of it. Made little jars and everything."

Schlatt stopped talking, and the silence pressed down like a physical weight, suddenly heavier and dragging itself further until it was close enough to crush. When he spoke again, he sounded—

"He told me he was going to sell it next to that one chick's baking stall, once his speech was done. Talked about it all the time, wouldn't shut up about it for a second. Quackity kept telling him how great of an idea it was." 

Another movement, distant and impossible to pin down. When Tommy looked up for barely a moment to steal a glance, Schlatt was laid out flat on his back. The ties hung from his fingertips like haunting vines, and Tommy couldn't see his face. 

"He was so excited about it. Made everyone their own jar. He worked so hard to get it all done in time," Schlatt said, "seemed like everyone was proud of him." 

Tommy didn't know if he was talking about the festival, or the honey. He didn't know if he cared. He didn't even know why the hell Schlatt was still talking. He didn't know why he listened. Perhaps it was simply desperation — a desire to know more, to learn about someone he'd never speak to again. 

(A new image to burn behind his eyelids, impossible and present all the same. 

Jars of golden sugar, hand blown and labeled with care, lined up in tidy rows with a pleasant sign hanging from the top. _Free Festival Honey_. 

Shattered glass. Ashen sweets that were more sulfur than food, honey soaked into charred wood. Flaming banners, cheerful colors turned to neon as they crumbled down to dust.) 

Tommy squeezed his eyes shut. 

Neither of them talked after that. 

\-----

+

\-----

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, kudos, feedback of any sort all feed the author my friends! If you want to talk about future events or even have any criticism for me, I'm all ears. Until next time!
> 
> Detailed Summary: 
> 
> Tommy visits an unconscious Schlatt in the new cell Technoblade constructed for him below ground. After a minor freak out he is forced to go back upstairs, opting to instead visit Schlatt at a later time when he's actually awake, in hopes of recognizing the monster of his nightmares. Unfortunately, Schlatt is not the beast Tommy remembers, and they argue before anger turns to grief.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of floodgates and painful realizations, Tommy finds the calm after the wave. Fleeting as it may be, he tries to keep it as close as he can. 
> 
> He feels he's earned that much, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I think I fixed it, but this chapter went through some weird technical difficulties when I was editing out some errors. I was terrified thinking that I deleted the whole thing, but it seems like it's up now and unharmed? If you've seen this chapter before, don't worry, you haven't gone crazy. The next chapter should be up soon, but I'll be editing that one in docs instead of on AO3. 
> 
> Did someone say chapter five? 
> 
> Hola, aloha, howdy do, whatever greeting suits your fancy. Welcome back to the marathon of chapters that is this little fic. This chapter actually fought me a bit, but I managed to get it to something I was pretty happy with. 
> 
> As always, comments, kudos, and feedback of any kind genuinely push me to work harder and faster at the next chapters. As we move forward I'll definitely need some of that momentum, haha. If you've got anything to comment on, feel free! 
> 
> Without further ado, please enjoy. For the time being I believe this counts as filler for the soul, haha.

_There was something sick about the melodies that float through dead air, the siren songs of those who never got the chance to sing._

_It was a sick melody, molded of the dance macabre._

_Grief was such an ugly song without it's harmonies._

\----- 

+

\-----

_He ran._

_His feet dug into the dirt, kicked up sand that shouldn't have been there with every frantic lunge. He was out of time, he was running out of time._

_(Something was wrong.)_

_He pushed himself harder. Run faster, something urged, he could make it._

_His temple ached terribly where he'd been hit, incapacitated by his final plea to Wilbur's remaining sanity, and the world kept unfocusing whenever he caught a glimpse of light. He disregarded it. He had to make it, he had to, Wilbur couldn't do this, he couldn't, he couldn't, Tommy couldn't_ let _him do this._

_(Something was different. Something was missing.)_

_Faster, faster—!_

Tommy shot up. His throat ached with the dry edge of disuse, sweat dripped off his neck. He barely noticed either. 

There was the faint sound of quick and even footsteps and Techno's hand was pressed to his shoulder, the other laid out flat on his chest. The pig-man seemed to tower now, since the bed was so decidedly low to the ground, a literal pillar of stability. Tommy couldn't see anything past him — he could barely see Techno as it was, vision seeming to almost lag with the afterimage of distorted terror. His expression was non-judgemental, flat with eyebrows pinched just a bit in the middle from concern. Tommy's heart was beating so loudly that he couldn't hear anything else — it felt like a thundering drum against the back of his skull.

Techno didn't speak. Didn't ask. Tommy couldn't have answered even if he had, because he was breathing like an exhausted bloodhound and his hands were trembling where he shoved them against the sheets. Fear gripped him like a painful vice, but Techno stayed stagnant and Tommy clung to the warrior's presence with all the strength his mind could muster. The hand Techno set on his chest felt like it was hovering right over the void there; it allowed Tommy to take in full breaths without feeling like the air whistled right out, and he focused on trying to inhale without choking out the excess. 

"Breathe, Tommy. It's alright." Techno's voice cut through the worst of the fog, and Tommy couldn't help but be thrown back into the first few days in a sick memory. The days where he'd see the ghosts of people in the corners of his peripherals, just out of sight, frozen in paralyzed fear like they'd been dragged from the rubble. The worst of them had been the days where Techno first began to settle the terror, eyes grounded and clear as he knelt by the bedside.

"Breathe. In and out. You're safe." 

He was _safe_ because everything that could have threatened him was dead and gone, and that was all his fault because he wasn't fast enough and—

"You did everythin' you could, Tommy." 

His eyes rocketed up to meet Techno's, confusion bleeding into his stare. The pig-man looked as sure as ever, gaze unfaltering steel. He looked like what he was saying was a concrete fact, and Tommy had no idea how to process it. 

"You did everythin' you could have done. It isn't your fault." 

Tommy didn't know how Techno even knew what he was thinking — how he knew where the thoughts led him to, dragged by his heels until he stumbled down the staircase and bumped his head on every painfully solid step until his world was a blend of nonsensical colors and too-loud sounds. He didn't believe it, of course. He knew millions of ways he could have changed the course, all glittering in gold and sadistic joy as they lingered far out of his reach, only close enough to taunt. To remind him of his own failures. It was his fault, it _had_ to be. He was the only other one who'd known — who _really_ knew what Wilbur had done. 

And yet. 

"I couldn't even get into his head. Couldn't get him to tell me what he was doin'. Wilbur was too far gone." _It wasn't your fault,_ an echo of repetition. 

Techno didn't often speak in order to make a conversation. He didn't talk like his words were cheap, didn't try to fill silences that other people would have labeled as painfully awkward. Techno spoke when he felt like it, and with a conviction that Tommy had grown to quietly respect. Lies were a waste of words already in short supply, and Technoblade was pragmatic above all else. A warrior conserving resources, no matter how niche. At least to him, Technoblade did not lie. 

Tommy's lip wobbled and he bit at it to force it back to stability, blinked his eyes to clear the growing haze. 

His breaths came slower now, leveled by gentle pressure from Techno's guiding hand. With every inhale he felt Techno's palm rise with his chest, felt it fall with every growingly level exhale. This at least was familiar — something Tommy understood. Techno had made it a habit, yet another stable constant. Tommy had nightmares, and Technoblade grounded him. It was just the way things worked. 

By the time he could see clearly again, his hands no longer shook. The fear had shriveled up and curled away at the face of Techno's will, as most things tended to do on their own. By the time Techno moved away, he could breathe without feeling like he'd choke on it, but there was no way in fresh hell he was going to be able to get back to sleep. Tommy rubbed his palms roughly over his face and cursed his own memories, gilded in false flames and falser agonies. 

(The images flashed like a slideshow, blinding and terrifying and so, so _violent._ There hadn't been any room for Wilbur's theatrics at the end, but they bled into Tommy's falsehoods like lead meeting acid. Pewter plates and poisoned tomatoes, conclusions drawn from impossible lies. 

He saw the explosions from impossible angles, active imagination twisting into morbidity beyond belief. Saw broken jars melting into smoldering piles, saw wooden stands burn and fall. He saw the screams, the terror, and hoped they were complete fiction. Tommy had little room for hope anymore, but he hoped for that with a desperation that made his teeth ache.) 

He wasn't sure how much time passed, but it was significant enough to startle him when Techno stood up again, palms pressed to his knees. He spoke as he walked, moved with steady strides toward the chest while he pushed up the cuffs of his white sleeves. 

"D'you like chocolate, Tommy?" 

Tommy blinked. 

_What?_

Of all the things that he could have possibly guessed, he would never in a million years have thought of that _._ It was such an absurd non-sequitur that he felt a bit taken off balance, and it was enough to pull him from his spiraling thoughts. He watched — essentially muted — as Techno popped the chest open and reached inside. He emerged with a small drawstring bag, made of clean leather that was sewn neatly near the top. When he shook it, it made a rattling sound. 

"..." 

"I've never really cared either way," Technoblade pulled the top of the bag open and glanced inside, expression unreadable, "but I've never met someone who didn't. Catch." 

He reached inside and moved something small in Tommy's general direction, throwing it after a few clear fake-outs. It sailed in a perfect arc, accuracy bleeding through even to the simplest of things. Tommy took it from the air with ease, furrowed his brow when he opened his fist to look. 

His eyes blew wide.

He held the small chocolate chip up to his eye level, watched in blatant awe as it began to melt against his fingertips. He hadn't seen chocolate in… 

_(Muffled laughter through fistfulls of flour, a kind but firm voice admonishing them even as her laughter joined theirs. Nikki carried a piping hot tray of cookies in careful, mitted hands, scurried past with a snicker as they scrambled to duck out of the way._

_The chocolate chips littered the floor and countertops, speckles against the concrete floor. Tommy flicked one at Tubbo's head and tried not to fall over in shocked cackles when he ate it, tilting his head to catch it in his mouth instead. The victory that burned like fire behind Tubbo's eyes made Tommy smile so wide that it ached._

_Nikki gently knocked the bottom of something against his shoulder, and when he turned she handed him a pleasantly warm mug, steam rising from the top in gentle, near soothing wisps. One to him and one to Tubbo to match.)_

Tommy closed his eyes, taking a moment to breathe again. He pressed his free hand into the fur of the cloak, at some point having been draped over his shoulders and secured at the helm. It grounded him like a physical force, pulled him together until he could see through the eyes of the present again. 

After a short moment longer of uncertainty, Tommy popped the half melted chocolate chip into his mouth. Across from him, Techno tossed one of the chips into the air and caught it without a blink between his teeth before he pulled the strings of the bag taught again. Tommy swallowed and paused, gave himself a moment to contemplate. Stuffed down the memories and dragged up a concept, rough and rocky around the corners, but coherent nonetheless. 

"... Do we have any milk?" 

Tommy's voice was a mumble, barely audible. Still, Techno tilted his head in absent thought. At his nod, Tommy threw his legs over the side of the bed with as much force as he could muster; which is to say, he moved slowly to stand. 

"We have coal?" Less of an inquiry, more a checklist. 

Another nod, slower this time. A silent question of Techno's own. 

"Good." 

Tommy stood as tall as his body would physically allow. He shut his eyes for a moment, took as deep of a breath as he could manage, and tried to offer a smile. It stretched oddly around his gums, and he let it go with a half-hearted sigh. 

"Have you ever made hot chocolate before?" 

+

It took half an hour, but eventually Tommy was sat with one leg pulled up to his chest, leant forward enough that he could balance his arm on his knee. In that hand he held a clay cup, half-full of cocoa, long since past the point of steaming warmth. He sipped at it slowly anyway, gaze locked on the horizon. Techno sat to his right, his own cup near full. It was his second, held within both hands as his legs dangled over the raised platform of stone below. 

The forest of spruce trees before them looked strange from a higher angle. They'd climbed to near the top of the hill that overlooked their hidden base, putting them a good meter or two above the tops of the trees. Just enough to see the beginnings of red, cresting like a wave over the edges of land that looked more like a smear than a mountain. It was too foggy to see all the way out, much less to make out any real details. 

_Even so, Tommy_ thought quietly, _it was refreshing._

The hot chocolate was sweet and easy enough to make, even easier to enjoy. The chill of the night had yet to entirely fade after all, even as the sky lightened at the edges and the moon sunk below the sightline, and the warmth was a welcome juxtaposition to the cool air. The air had grown fresher lately, easier to take in and out as the remnants of a blaze left on gusts of wind. He tilted his cup a bit and watched as the liquid tilted with it, only a bit thicker than water. It had turned out remarkably well with the tools they'd had on hand, even if they had to comically chop chocolate with the sharp edge of an unused iron axe. 

Tommy took another sip, the sound oddly loud against the quiet of dawn. 

"Where'd you even get this stuff anyway?" Tommy asked. He heard the clink of a cup meeting stone, the shift of fabric as Techno adjusted his position. 

"Found a village a while back," he replied, "just as stingy as ever though. Never give you what you want on the first try." 

Amusingly, Techno sounded almost irritated. Tommy glanced at him through his peripherals and watched as the other tapped his nail on the side of his mug. His expression was as flat as ever, but his lips were pursed into annoyance that had likely only been borne of experience. Tommy felt his mouth twitch a little at the corners despite himself. He leant back on his free arm, nodding his head with a sense of exasperated camaraderie.

The villagers were a strange group, almost alien in their features with hands that rarely ever seemed to leave their sleeves for more than a split second. He'd heard all sorts of stories about how and when they arrived, but nobody ever seemed to actually know where they came from. All the same, you could get quite a few interesting items from villagers if you were careful about it. There wasn't much you couldn't get for an emerald, for example. They loved them more than anything else, prized the glittering gem in all its forms with a fervor that Tommy had found almost unsettling. The first time he'd visited a village had been eventful, to say the least, only having brought one of the jewels that he'd found whilst searching for diamonds. The villagers had nearly swarmed him, eyes locked on the stone every time it left his pockets. Techno seemed like he knew the feeling well, because when he turned to look at Tommy, it was with an edge. 

"I managed to haggle some actual chocolate from them, but most of it ended up bein' cocoa beans. That wasn't fun." 

Technoblade's expression twisted as he spoke, as close to a lament as he'd ever been, and had Tommy felt better he might have even laughed. Cocoa beans were easy enough to find in jungles if you were determined enough, although he'd yet to discover a jungle anywhere nearby. He had no doubt that Techno knew he'd essentially been scammed out of… whatever it was he traded away. How the villagers had even gotten their hands on the stuff was beyond him. He'd never seen them leave their homes before. 

Still, it was hard to feel cheated when he took a sip from the cup. It tasted a bit like nostalgia incarnate, sweet without being suffocating, rich without being grotesque. _Simple._ It seemed like nothing ever was anymore, and the small spark of normalcy felt like liquid gold. He needed the break it offered, even if the memories it dredged up felt more like the edges of shattered glass than he was comfortable with. He'd prefer those shattered pieces to the aching burn that had swallowed his dreams — he'd prefer it to the images a man that wasn't quite right had burned into his skull with scarred hands and broken horns, and a tone so sharply flat that it tasted like the stale air after metalworking. 

Techno seemed content to just sit and aimlessly watch the sunrise without the pressures of constant conversation as always, and Tommy was more grateful than that than he wanted to admit. He was grateful to Technoblade for a lot of things, more so than he ever had been when hero worship had turned his vision to bushels of roses, blinded by optimism and the unspoken rules of the universe. It had been mere moments, and it had been an eternity. He was stuck behind a glass wall now, as that memory of a boy clashed against the opposition with a fire and rage that felt foreign to his exhausted hands. 

(What would he think now, his childhood self? What would he make of the world as it was, charred and painful and quiet? A paradox of reality and discord. What would he think, knowing the double entendre to "Technoblade never dies"?) 

They sat there for a long time, words fading to afterthoughts as the sun battled elegantly with the open sky. The moon ducked away entirely and the sun rose in its stead, a large golden gemstone as it cast a warm red glow over everything in sight. It turned Tommy's skin an almost vibrant orange, the warmth a comforting shift from the cool chill of the stone below. Tommy tilted his head back, listened as the beginnings of the birds that littered the trees began to sing. The song of the waking word, shaking itself to awareness with the constant vigor of impossibility. 

He picked up his cup properly, drained the rest, and tried to absorb the fleeting moment of relaxation while they had it. Beside him, Technoblade tapped a steady tune against the stone. And it was fleeting, yes. But in that moment, for the briefest of seconds as Technoblade murmured an incomprehensible harmony, Tommy felt as close to peace as he could. Below their feet, a bird soared up in a brilliant arc, feathers gleaming with the promise of life and the glittering warmth of dawn. Tommy couldn't find it in himself to relish it, not in the way that he would have before — from _walls,_ from won battles and bright skies without smog — but he could gather up the pieces of peace and clutch them to his chest. He could dig his fingertips in and hold them, and carve out new spaces in whatever he had left to make them fit. 

That wasn't _enough._ Not quite. He was too rough, held too many scratched up heartaches to count. But it was better. Tommy had learned that you had to settle for better, sometimes. If he got to "better" enough, eventually, maybe it would last until they could build it up to "good". 

The ache in his chest wouldn't fade. He knew that in his bones, the way a fish knew it could breathe easy in water. It was a fresh wound, opened up by forces he didn't know and didn't _want_ to know. Yellow eyes haunted his every breath, and he hated that there were two sets now. Different yet similar, impossible in their dichotomy, near indistinguishable from the other. 

No, the ache wouldn't fade. But he could push forward. He could push himself toward whatever extra pieces of peace he could reach, and he would cobble together some semblance of home. 

(It seemed like that was becoming a trend too.) 

+

For all his contemplation, Tommy was still never one for plans. 

Haste had long since left him, but the burning need to progress survived in small embers. Urged him to move, to do _something,_ to absorb himself in some kind of activity to burn the remnants of his ancient boundless energy. It was satisfied by trivial things in most cases — the sorts of things that Technoblade would ask for his assistance with. Fetch a few things, help sharpen a few tools. Mine out more iron, crush the diamonds into blocks for more effective storage. Harvest and replant half of the potatoes within their hidden field. Tommy did all those things gladly, and the speed at which he got better at them was a change even he managed to notice most days. Things that had seemed impossible became second nature, and he was able to focus on singular tasks with a vigor that he had once disregarded entirely. 

That being said, Techno still only asked for help in those same ways. Tommy didn't hold it against him — how could he when some days he struggled to even move at all? — but the itch began to grow the more accustomed to it all that he became, no matter how much his body protested. Tommy couldn't help but feel guilty. Not only for the effort it took, but for the fact that his mind still revolted against them — still refused to be soothed or to settle. It made his skin prickle with unwarranted fear, and half the time he wanted to just roll over and never move again. The more restless his body grew, the more he noticed odds and ends.

Techno still ventured out alone, still chased after mobs and supplies at all hours without a word of protest or a hint of desire for extended rest. Tommy still wasn't sure when the man slept — much less if it was on some kind of regular basis. For all Techno's absent talk of laziness, he could count the amount of times he had seen Techno asleep on one hand. The heavy bags beneath the man's eyes never faded away either, near purple with impossible shadow. He never seemed to mind when Tommy shot awake at night, never gave any indication of irritation when Tommy couldn't breathe until the sun rose again. 

Techno did more than Tommy had been able to process, let alone be grateful for. And Tommy had never been the sort to live complacently. Even the newer version of himself, raw and aching as it so often was, wished that he could do more. That he could give Technoblade a moment to do… whatever the hell it was that he did, in the rare moments where duties didn't pull him to the sidelines. 

The idea came to him during the third day of limbo, when Technoblade returned from yet another trip with a bag weighed down by supplies. He had arrived with an armful of things — apples, spider eyes, more enderpearls and glittering string — that hadn't fit into the space he'd allocated. The briefest of thoughts, the smallest of sparks. 

If there was one thing Tommy had learned though, it was that it only took one to start up a forest fire. 

_Techno needed another pair of hands out there, didn't he?_

\-----

+

\-----

It took two more days to build up the courage, and four more from there for the subject to actually arise. When it did, it had almost stuck in his throat like another prickled burr. He'd almost choked it down, almost swallowed the idea to shove and shelve it for another day. Another week. More than anything, the fear of that shoved Tommy's will forward. 

"I want to come with you." 

Tommy blurted out the words with a bit too much force, breaking the silence that had only been truly interrupted by Techno's absent muttering. He'd been near out the door, bag slung over his shoulder and hand on the doorknob. At Tommy's voice, he turned back to look. He almost looked… surprised.

Tommy half expected him to refuse, or to ignore him. To push out the door and brush it off as something Tommy didn't quite mean. There was an irrational part of him that feared it — because if Techno pushed back, he wasn't sure he'd be able to push the issue. The silence didn't help, stretching onward until it felt so brittle that Tommy almost shook it off and recounted his words. 

And then Techno opened his mouth. 

"... You sure?" 

Techno tilted his head a bit, gestured without movement toward the outside. Toward the world that Tommy had damn near shuttered himself against, because inside meant _safety,_ it meant he wasn't subject to the absent trails of ash that drifted by in the passing winds. 

Tommy gripped his hands together, swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. He cursed himself for it. Inside didn't mean safety now. Not the way it used to. He could feel it wearing on him, the constant twist of his head whenever Techno reached for a pickaxe to break a cobblestone barrier. Whenever he came up from the stairs that Tommy wanted desperately to pretend weren't there. It didn't matter what he did, he knew what lay below. And if he had to pick between fresh air and _that,_ between another second of forced quiet and painful aching memories? Between a trip out to finally help pull a little more weight and the smothering guilt that swept him away?

"I'm sure." 

His voice was steady, firm around the edges where it had been ragged only a few weeks before. He had Techno to thank for that, really. Techno, who stared analytically for a moment and made Tommy straighten his back despite himself. Techno, who blinked, broke the moment, and shrugged. The cloak, clipped around his shoulders for the first time in what felt like a century, shifted like shimmering red-tinted water. 

"Okay." 

Techno glanced around and pointed vaguely at Tommy. He released the handle of the door in favor of leaning against it, back pressed to the wood. He rolled his shoulder in the socket a bit as he continued. 

"Go throw on a chestplate then. I'll be waitin' for you, don't worry. No rush." 

Tommy had expected more resistance somehow. Something in him was waiting for that doubtful stare — for a set of chapped smiling lips and a condescending pat on the head from too-wide eyes, one near obscured from oily hair that had grown too long, grown long enough to smother amber in streaks of unkempt oak — but he shook it away, stuffed the ghosts of the past back forcefully before they could turn his thoughts to whirlpools of static again. 

Finding a chestplate was simple enough. Technoblade was prepared almost to a fault. When Tommy checked the chest that had been unofficially-officially labelled _his,_ he spotted a glittering purple metal, buried underneath odds and ends. He pulled his netherite chestplate free, the familiar weight of it near shocking. 

It shined like enchantment personified in his hands, rippled impossibly. He'd been so proud of it when he made it, sweaty and exhausted from the effort it took. It was far more beaten up than it had once been, with dents — _arrows_ — and scrapes — _swords_ — littering every other inch. Even so it was sturdy, and he felt a bit like an iron golem when he slid it on. Despite everything, it still fit him like a glove. 

He snapped the chest shut and pulled himself to his feet, caught the bag that Techno tossed to him with quick hands. The pig-man sniffed a bit, rubbed at his face with a free hand and pulled it messily through his hair before he pushed the door open. Despite the opportunity, Technoblade did not turn back and rescind the offer. He did not look at Tommy like he was lesser — like he was something weak and helpless. He stepped through the threshold and glanced back only once, only to tug at his cloak and nod his head. 

"Let's get goin' then. We've only got so much daylight, and I'm not eager to attract a hoard." 

\-----

+

\-----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was by far the happiest, I think. We all deserved a little bit of fluff after all that angst from before, and poor Tommy needed it the most. 
> 
> The next chapter might be genuinely slow coming though, because I feel like I've hit a bit of a roadblock with my writing now. I hope you'll have patience with me as I try and move forward!
> 
> Detailed Summary: Tommy deals with the emotional fallout of his conversation with Schlatt. Techno attempts to cheer him up with chocolate, which Tommy builds upon by making hot cocoa. Tommy later announces that he wants to accompany Techno on his trips outside, which Technoblade obliges.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy remembers a time when he would have dug in his heels like his life depended on it for even the most mundane of things — a time where no matter what, he would fight tooth and nail for even the slightest bit of ground.
> 
> Tommy wasn't sure where that had gone, but he suspects it might have been buried beneath the rubble of Manburg as it fell, and he's left to piece together what's left. 
> 
> Or 
> 
> Tommy follows Technoblade out into the world again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter pog? 
> 
> It's not as long as the first or fourth chapters, but this guy actually ended up being pretty solid for filler and is longer than some of the others. It's mostly setup for what's coming in oncoming chapters, since I have a very rough plan for how things will turn out. 
> 
> As always, comments, kudos, and feedback all fuel my soul and push me to get more chapters out as quickly as I can <3 
> 
> With that being said, please enjoy.

_Freedom._

_They had sought nothing but freedom for longer than any of them could really recall — sought it long before they'd donned blue uniforms and started the construction of giant towers and walls._

_Freedom had bled into every action, every moment that they stole from the bustle of everyday life. Freedom spat spores into their minds, whispered quiet questions that they hadn't been quite ready to hear._

_Freedom had been their greatest ally, until it found a new wind to follow. Until it deemed them unfit, more of the same. It dropped like a sudden shudder of wind beneath their sails, and didn't spare them a glance as they fell into the abyss._

_Freedom could not and would not be contained. Thinking they were different, that they were above it somehow, had been their deadly downfall._

\-----

+

\-----

Somehow, the air tasted different. 

If he'd been asked why, Tommy wouldn't have been able to give an answer. It wasn't like he'd been inside every moment of every day, or that he hadn't felt sunlight on his skin. Maybe it was the echo of decision, of a conscious effort to move into territories he was unfamiliar with. Either way, when he and Techno left the barrier of the treeline behind — where Tommy had always stopped when gathering wood — he felt like he had stepped into a new world on fawn's legs, unsteady and adrenaline filled from nothing at all. It was absurd, really. He had _been_ to these lands. He had run with his back to the enemy, splashed through rivers and left a streak of cuts alongside tree trunks to guide him back from whence he came. It made no sense for him to feel like he had never ventured beyond the forest. 

He took what comfort he could from Techno's presence, calm and orderly and far too regal to be fair. He looked focused on some point in the horizon, like he knew where he was headed at all times. When he spoke he didn't look away, eyes locked on something in the distance that Tommy couldn't quite see. 

"I was plannin' on going out to try and find a desert temple," Techno explained, "but that's… probably not the greatest idea now." 

Tommy thought back to what he knew about desert temples — they were large, constructed of sandstone and clay of varying colors, and they were infamous for being horrifically trapped. Specifically trapped with _TNT,_ stacks upon stacks underneath unassuming sand. Tommy felt his stomach lurch like he'd been physically shaken by the shoulders, and he had to swallow as hard as he could to keep down the sudden acidic sting of bile. Techno's set expression twisted a bit at the corners, mouth pursed and tight. He set a gloved hand on Tommy's shoulder, steady and silently reassuring as he continued. 

"So, we're goin' to the plains instead. Priority number one is gettin' to a village again, because enchantin' books is more trouble than it's worth. I've been meanin' to get more mendin' ones for your armor, once we actually get you a full set." 

That made sense — Tommy knew from personal, painful experience how much trouble it could be to even get a half-decent enchantment on random chance, much less an _exact_ and _rare_ enchantment to boot. Tommy hadn't even managed to snag stable mending _once_ on all his various sets of armour over the wars, and villagers never seemed to cooperate with what he wanted before. 

_Maybe,_ he wondered to himself with a bit of dry humor, _it was because he'd always been so aggressive about it._ He had a terrible habit at the time for yelling at the villagers when things went awry — he'd yelled at a lot of things, actually. So much aggression and so little time. 

Even so, Tommy wasn't deterred. It seemed like Techno had a decent idea of how to get where they needed to go, and Tommy felt a little better already. It was cliched beyond belief, but it was true to a point that fresh air could do wonders for your health — or at least, he was inclined to think so. He was fine with placing his faith in two places; Technoblade and a nonsensical placebo.

If he had learned the difference between north, south, east and west, what did it matter? So what if he tilted his head carefully away from one particular angle, and so what if Technoblade never seemed to allow him to gaze in a certain direction? Tommy had finally cobbled together enough force to leave the fucking cave, and if he had learned _anything_ through it all, it was to celebrate the smaller victories while you could. 

_(You never knew when it would be too late.)_

So Tommy pointed his head up and stared at the clouds, stretched out his hands and ignored the slightly too-pale pallor of his skin, ignored the way his fingers shook a bit more than they used to, a long time ago. Techno absently rumbled something beside him, mumbling about planes and clouds and old habits, and Tommy let the background noise lull his thoughts to quiet murmurs. He walked with his head purposefully tilted upward, and tried to keep his back to the brightest rays of the sun. 

+

Finding the village went along at a comfortable pace. They had picked a good day to travel, with the sun high in the sky and the blue of it so clear that Tommy could have mistaken it for an ocean. The few clouds that littered the sky offered short reprieves from the sun, bursts of cool shadow as breezes drifted steadily by. 

Once in a while Techno would stop walking, kneel down on one leg and examine the ground. Tommy recognized the motion — he was getting his bearings somehow. Techno had jokingly called it the "human GPS" strategy once, before everything went so wrong. Tommy still didn't have the faintest clue as to what he was looking for or how he found it, and when he asked he got a choppy mess of cardinal directions and absent nonsense. So instead he just nodded and shrugged, followed beside Technoblade when he stood up again and waited patiently while he completed his rituals. God knows Tommy had done worse. 

Whatever Technoblade did though, it worked. Tommy realized with a start that he could see the beginnings of a wooden dwelling in the distance, covered by a short field of trees. The closer they grew, the more victory rose. 

"Finally," Techno sighed, "thought we'd never reach it. I know villages can't move, but that took forever." 

Tommy wasn't sure if that was true, he'd been kind of enraptured by the sights and sounds that he'd been hiding away from for ages, so he figured he'd just go with Technoblade's judgement on the matter. He followed dutifully as Techno pushed through a bit of brush and grass, ducked between tree trunks and carefully avoided stepping on budding flowers. The distant village grew larger as they broke through the treeline, and Tommy realized with a start that it was actually quite large. Larger than he'd ever seen a plains village be, anyway. At first glance, he saw four separate iron golems perusing the area, robotic features turning in even time like they were programmed for patrol. 

"Half the golems are man-made," Techno explained at Tommy's silent questioning stare; "I figured a village this huge would need more protectin' than two of them could offer. Plus," Techno leaned in exaggeratedly, the motion made more absurd by his flat expression as he whispered; "it gives me some real good deals on enchantin' books." 

Tommy huffed something that was _almost_ a laugh, and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his faded jeans. 

"So we just have to find the librarian, right?" 

"Easier said than done." 

Technoblade spoke with the gravity of a man that had been scarred by painful past experience, and Tommy's weak bubble of laughter grew stronger until he snickered, placing a hand on Techno's shoulder in a show of mock sympathy. Techno nodded gravely, mouth grim set and all false sincerity. 

Eventually though, the fake moment gave way to the task they'd set out to complete. Technoblade carefully — and quickly, with a gaze shot between the villagers to ensure none of them saw — dumped a bunch of small emeralds into Tommy's bag. Tommy kept his expression level for the sake of the ruse, but he was shocked when he caught a glimpse of Technoblade's full bag. 

"Don't let them take more than fifteen to twenty for one book," Techno said seriously, "there's a chance they'll try to scam you since you're new, so don't give them anythin' until you get the book first." 

Tommy nodded, still mildly shocked at the sheer _amount_ of emeralds that Techno had deposited with him. And it wasn't even half of what the man had! Tommy had no clue when he'd found it all. With all their mining work done, he'd only ever found a couple emeralds at a time. Techno seemed to contemplate something for a minute before he dug in his bag again, pulling out a smaller pouch. When Tommy opened it, his eyes widened. There were three _large_ emeralds set inside, shimmering like pieces of smooth seaglass. 

"If you see anything you want, get it _after_ the books." Technoblade's tone was rough and full of warning, and Tommy couldn't help but feel a little warmed by it. It reminded him of better days — of warm lights and trading systems. Techno moved and then paused one final time. Carefully, after a mere moment of hesitation, he held out a small firework.

"If you need anythin', call for me. If I don't answer and it's important, shoot the firework. I'll find you." 

He waited until Tommy took it, nodded, and patted his shoulder before he began to walk away. Tommy took that as his cue, and he headed in the opposite direction, shoving down the quiet anxiety that rose when he could no longer see Technoblade in the area. The crossbow he owned glittered reassuringly at his side where he'd clipped to his belt, and on a whim he slid the firework into his pocket instead of into his bag. He trusted Technoblade more than anyone, but he would be lying if he said the insurance of having it close didn't make him feel a bit more at ease. 

From there, the process was easy enough. Scour the area and try and locate the familiar robes of the librarian. A few villagers seemed to trace him with their eyes, but he gave them no indication that he knew they were watching. He knew villagers had a decent reason to be cautious — not every person was there to trade peacefully. 

When he finally saw a bright red hat, he practically bolted over, reaching out to snag the villager by the sleeve. They turned, brow creased with what Tommy could only assume was confusion. 

"I'm looking to trade for some mending books?" Tommy offered, hoping the villager understood; "for armour, weapons, that kind of thing, y'know." 

For a moment it seemed like the villager was just going to stare, emerald green eyes almost suspiciously blank as they met his. Then the villager tugged him forward, walking towards a building he could only assume was the library. He hoped it was, anyway, and that he hadn't accidentally been dragged to the wrong place. To his great relief, the villager pushed open large wooden doors to reveal rows upon rows of books, all lined up in bookshelves and organized by color. It was a surprisingly clean space, with wooden floors and a clean strip of red carpet that led to the lectern. When they turned, Tommy half thought that it was another staring contest. But at a prompting noise, it clicked. 

"Oh! I'm uh — hold on." 

Tommy dug into his bag and pulled out a single emerald, proof of currency. The villager — to his surprise — didn't immediately try to take it. Instead, they tilted their head toward him. Another prompt. Tommy had gotten far better at reading those than he once had been. 

"I'm looking for mending books," he repeated, "um… I'm not sure how many. Probably as many as you have that I can afford?" 

Tommy had to wonder if all villagers happened to understand as easily as this one did, because they seemed to be genuinely, wordlessly pleased with the influx of information. The villager scurried off and Tommy heard the telltale sounds of books rustling, pages flipping and the thump of a closed cover. When he peeked around the corner, the villager was busily shuffling through a couple enchanted books, setting a few down on the lectern and putting a few back in place. 

Eventually the librarian looked back up, expectant, and Tommy walked over. 

There were four enchanted books waiting on the lectern, all labeled and glimmering. The spines were engraved with golden galactic letters, something that always happened when books were enchanted properly. To his relief — and mild irritation, since the galactic alphabet was not his strong suit — they all said _mending._

"How much?" He asked, gesturing toward the pile. 

The villager stared at him for a moment, gaze dragging up and down. Tommy couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious about his dirt crusted clothing now. The cuffs of his jeans had long since been crusted over with dirt, and his face was smeared with coal from their mine. The cleanest thing on him was probably the chestplate, and even that was banged up. Hopefully the mending would be able to save it before it broke beyond repair. 

The villager pushed the books toward him, and he blinked in surprise. 

"Um. I don't understand, sorry. How much do you want?" He gestured toward his bag, then toward the emerald he had in his hand. The villager slowly unfolded their arms from their sleeves and extended a hand. He hesitantly set the small stone in their palm, and their fingers closed to a fist around it. The villager pushed the stack of books toward him and turned away. When he didn't move, still dumbstruck, the librarian let out an almost irritated sounding huff. The books were picked up and practically shoved into his hands, and he stumbled back with wide eyes. 

"You mean — wait, you only want one emerald? For these?" 

He was baffled beyond belief. Even more so when the villager turned away from him again, now facing the rows of books. He was being ignored. 

_What the hell?_

Tommy slowly put the books in his bag, and the villager didn't stop him. Didn't make a fuss or try to snatch the books back. In fact, if anything, the villager seemed actively dismissive. Tommy swallowed down his confusion and took a step back, toward the door. Still no protest. 

He waited a moment and furrowed his brow. He reached into his bag and pulled open the small pouch, hesitantly removing one of the three large emeralds. It was about the size of his thumb, decently cut and clear. He set it cautiously on the lectern and walked quickly away, scooting out the door with a vague thank you on his lips. 

Tommy didn't see the way the librarian turned back, glancing at the emerald with an unreadable expression on their strange features. The librarian put the emerald in a chest, and went back to work. 

+

Still a bit confused by it all, Tommy emerged from the library with his bag considerably full. He brushed it off as best he could, but he was still deep in thought as he ventured out, glancing around the village in search of familiar pink hair. 

The village was bustling. More so than anything he'd ever seen before, really. It was large and busy and there were conversations in a language he couldn't understand, all blending into the background alongside the rumble of large iron protectors. There was a distant clanging sound of a blacksmith, the quiet chatter and rustling of a farmer pulling up crops. By all means, it was a society in its own right. 

His encounter with the strange librarian left him a little shaken, because he found himself standing before a stall without realizing. The villager that manned it looked up at him, brow arched in surprise. They were holding a tray in gloved hands, three loaves of still-warm bread sitting in the middle. Tommy cleared his throat. 

"Er — how much?" 

The villager tilted their head before tapping twice on the table. Tommy dug into his bag and pulled out two small emeralds, and he got two loaves of bread in return. He nodded carefully. 

"Thank you." 

The villager nodded before turning back to the oven, and that was that. 

Tommy bit into the bread as he walked, eyes tracing around the area. It was nice to be in something like this again, with the hustle and bustle of people at work. It was different, of course, but it was familiar in some ways too. Even so he would rather not be alone, he did have what he came for. 

"Technoblade?" He called out, mouth still half full. He swallowed the rest of the bread he'd bitten off before trying again. 

"Techno? Where are you big man?" 

There was a beat of silence, and then: 

"Right here, Tommy." 

He followed the voice. When he rounded the corner he saw a familiar shock of pink and red, and Techno was leaning against the side of the blacksmith's shop, arms crossed as he watched the villager work. 

"That was fast," Techno mused, "did you end up gettin' any books?" 

Tommy nodded, expression twisted into something like a smile. 

"Yeah I — I did, but… man, it was kind of weird, actually." He pursed his lips before shrugging, reaching into his bag to offer Technoblade the second loaf of bread. It was crisp and pleasantly warm, and Techno took it with a nod of thanks. 

"Weird how?" Techno prompted. Tommy nodded as he spoke. 

"Yeah, weird. I only ended up giving the librarian two emeralds — but one of them was one of the big ones." 

Techno had been about to take a bite of the loaf when he finished the sentence, and he stopped before he could sink in slightly sharp teeth. He arched a brow. 

"You got away with payin' with two emeralds?" 

"A big one and a small one," Tommy clarified. It didn't clear up the expression on Techno's face, whatever emotion it was.

"Well, I've never gotten a deal that good," Techno snorted, "but the more the merrier. I got three books, so that makes seven total. Enough for a full set of armour and some, I'm callin' that a success." 

He bit into the loaf of bread, glancing up at the sky. The sun had set considerably, now closer to the horizon than the clouds.

"We should be gettin' back. Good work, Tommy."

Tommy wasn't really sure if that was something that applied to him, but he was proud enough to smile. Almost. 

+

Tommy had never been particularly athletic. It wasn't that he had been _lazy_ — there was no room for laziness in war — but outside of outright conflicts or teenage trademarked bursts of wild energy, Tommy had never quite been the stamina type. His battle training had come mostly from experience, from play fights and short training sessions whenever someone had the time to teach him. Even so, he'd usually been focused more on honing his own skills than he had on observing the other fighter. 

If Tommy had learned to do anything from his more recent days, it was how to shut up and watch. To observe and note down the intricacies of combat style and effective techniques. With Technoblade as his only reference point, he was certain it was a good start. 

Technoblade was surety in motion. The hints of quiet awkwardness, the long comfortable pauses, the mumbling, it all faded into an impossible void when he had a weapon in hand. It was like pointing a perfectly precise turret at a single ant, or a hurricane at a field. Tommy barely had to lift a finger, much less actually wave a sword. 

Technoblade struck down any of the mobs they happened to encounter with absurd ease, setting quick strikes right through the rotting flesh of a zombie or the empty eye sockets of skeletons before they could even get a shot off. He looked almost like a bloodied dancer, cloak billowing behind him as his weapons emerged like calculated gunfire. His limbs were a blur as they swept under rotting legs, even as he swapped between his crossbow and melee weapons like it was second nature. It was kind of terrifying actually, and he was the fastest with creepers. They didn't even get to hiss or blink before Techno put a well aimed shot right between their empty eyes, making them vanish into a puff of harmless smoke and a pile of unused grey powder.

"... You look bored," Techno said aloud, snapping Tommy from his thoughts; "you want a shot?" 

It took Tommy a second to realize that Technoblade wasn't only speaking aloud. His cloak shifted around his shoulders as his arm rose into view, holding the crossbow by the unloaded bolt so the handle faced Tommy's empty hands. 

The crossbow glittered in a way that only skillfully enchanted weapons ever could, a constant, pulsing aura of energy that radiated a type of magical warmth. Technoblade's crossbow was one of the most powerful weapons Tommy had ever seen — by far the most deadly of any crossbow he'd ever witnessed. It outclassed the one he'd thrown together by a landslide, to be certain, but even the weapon he held _before_ wouldn't have been a match. Technoblade was always incredibly proud of his weapons, whittled and welded together by his own hands. The Axe of Peace was a great example of that — it never left his person, not even when he was working on something mundane, like sorting enderpearls or examining the diamonds they found. He hardly ever allowed anyone to touch them, much less wield them.

 _Except,_ Tommy recalled with slowly dawning awe, _for the sword._ First the sword, now the crossbow. He was the only person he'd ever known who had been given that kind of offer. He had been too caught up at the time to think about it, but in hindsight...

If a hint of old glee tried to weakly but admirably spark alive in his chest as he reached out with careful hands, it wasn't his fault. Technoblade let it go with ease, tucked his hands back beneath his cloak as he strode to Tommy's side and far out of the range of the weapon. Tommy didn't load it either, instead relishing in the weight of it. 

"Okay," Techno said, once he was out of the danger-zone, "now that thing has multishot, and it's stronger than anythin' you've probably had before, crossbow or not. So let me know before you fire it, and you're gonna want to be ready for the recoil." 

Techno squinted a little, swept his focused eyes over the plains. He leveled his gaze at a slightly distant treeline. There was a zombie hidden beneath one of the first trees, ducked away from the sun that could so easily burn rotting skin. It obviously hadn't seen them yet, because it was clawing absently at the bark of the tree, probably aching from hunger and long-dead madness. Techno's hand emerged from his cloak again as he pointed unceremoniously toward the zombie.

"Aim for that. See if you can hit the trees behind it too. Should be able to." 

Tommy inclined his head. He was actually pretty damn good with a crossbow — he was alright with most weapons, really. He'd gotten better at them earlier than anyone would have thought.

Tommy leveled the crossbow and loaded it, shocked by the speed. It was a bit like holding an automated machine, pieces snapping into place without much pressure at all. No wonder Technoblade never _bought_ his weapons. He glanced to Technoblade as his finger ghosted over the trigger, and the pig-man nodded as he backed up a step, settling a hand on Tommy's shoulder.

The crossbow fired, and Tommy was sent flying backward by the force. He only barely managed to catch a glimpse, to see the way two spectral arrows split from the first and fired off in the corners before his field of vision was obstructed by his own flailing limbs. Both of Techno's hands landed hard on his shoulders, caught him quickly enough that Tommy was able to regain his bearings. Tommy had fired a crossbow plenty of times without even flinching, but the power behind the blow...

"Jesus fucking christ," Tommy breathed, near awestruck and maybe even a bit afraid, "this thing is _mental_ Technoblade." 

Techno huffed something, barely a puff of air, and Tommy let the crossbow go the instant Techno reached for it. He tucked it back under his cloak, gestured with his other hand toward the zombie he'd told Tommy to shoot. When he looked, his jaw dropped. 

Not only was the zombie gone — a rotting pile beneath the leaves — but the arrow formed an actual hole that went through the trunk of the tree, stuck so deeply that it looked like it was more than halfway buried in the wood. 

"Jesus," he repeated, faintly, "remind me never to get on your bad side, Technoblade." 

For all his jokes though, _that_ was not a lesson he had yet to learn. Nobody with half a mind would willingly fight Technoblade — save for the select few that could manage to go for more than one round and manage to survive. Most of those people were in entirely different worlds — legends and terrors in their own right. Tommy had rarely ever crossed paths with them at all, much less spoken to them. 

Apart from one. 

_("What happened to Dream?" Tommy asked, eyes wide as he pulled Wilbur to the side. Wilbur chuckled, ruffled Tommy's hair in the way he knew Tommy jokingly hated._

_"Didn't you hear, Tommy?" Wilbur tilted his head, nodded toward the green-clad man with a bemused tilt of his lips. Dream was busily changing some kind of bandage on his arm, expression hidden behind the mask._

_"He lost his duel to Technoblade." Tommy's jaw dropped. He scoffed a moment later, the absurdity of it making him snort. Privately he couldn't help but feel impressed that Dream was still standing, mostly unharmed._

_"Well no shit, that's… I mean it's_ Technoblade, _what did he think was going to—"_

_"No, it was close, Tommy." Wilbur's expression turned abruptly serious as he reached out, set his hand on Tommy's forearm, "He only lost by two matches out of ten. Six to four. Close enough that they split the money down the middle." There was a hint of warning there, sudden and ice cold behind a spark of Wilbur’s own fear. Wilbur had been smiling, but it was not something to treat flippantly._

_That was enough to shut Tommy up._

_For Dream to challenge Technoblade, he would have to be mad. Tommy knew that much already. But for him to win, not once, but four_ _times? He was only one match from ending up with a tie. With fucking_ Technoblade.

Christ, _he thought despite himself, oblivious and young;_ please never let him have to fight that man.)

Tommy swallowed hard and ran shaking hands through his hair. His fingers actually tingled a little bit, and he wasn't sure if that was the magic or the shock of the recoil.

"I think I'll stick with my weapons, thanks," he finally managed. Techno shrugged. 

"It gets easier with practice," Technoblade mused, setting off again at an even pace. Tommy sped up a bit to get to him, and enough time passed that Tommy figured it was the end of the statement. And then Techno spoke again, voice casual.

"Maybe we can work on that later. See if we can get you steady with it. You're a fast learner." 

Tommy went stock still, body frozen with the impact of words that almost felt like a bucket of ice water dumped on his head. Techno didn't stop, kept walking with an expression Tommy couldn't quite see. It didn't matter. Tommy's brain was whirling like a fucking hurricane as he reevaluated and reconsidered every aspect of that sentence, because there was no way it was what he thought it was. 

Technoblade just offered to _train him._ Technoblade just called him a fast learner, and offered to train him in combat. 

The part of Tommy that could still manage it surged like an unfamiliar wave, cresting in an audible gasp as he sprinted to catch up. For the first time in ages, he felt an actually familiar smile creep up on his lips as he skidded to a stop in front of the cloaked figure.

"Techno — ?" 

"Don't get too excited," Techno warned, but Tommy couldn't manage to feel like he meant it. Something behind the man's eyes glittered with something oddly warm, and had he the energy, Tommy probably would have audibly whooped or pumped his fist into the air. Had he been the boy from before, he probably would have cheered loudly enough to attract every mob in a fifty block radius. 

As it was, he could only smile and relish in the surge of pride that roared to life in his chest. And if Technoblade didn't comment on it, that was nobody's business but his own. 

\-----

+

\-----

_(Tubbo gasped, eyes wide as Tommy spun his sword in wide arcs and sweeping circles around his fingers like an overgrown pencil. When Tommy finally stopped, Tubbo crept closer with eyes that practically sparkled._

_"Tommy, that's so freaking cool man! When did you—?"_

_"I've been practicing!" Tommy beamed, gleeful as he thumped his free hand proudly on his chest, "half the battle of… uh. Battles, is the intimidation! Imagine how effective it'll be when my enemies see me doing this with my sword, big man." Not that he really had any enemies to fight, but still. He demonstrated with another smooth spin and snickered. Tubbo joined in, all smiles and vibrant colors as he babbled about how proud he was — how they'd use it to defend the garden he'd been planning to build._

_"Oh, so now I'm free labor?" Tommy joked. Tubbo shrugged smugly, but the facade crumbled quickly into more laughter. It wasn't even that funny, but Tubbo's joy was infectious. It fed into Tommy's pride like a positive feedback loop until he was laughing too, and the sword vanished into the item-space as he thumped Tubbo heavily on the back, grinning so wide that it made his cheeks ache._

_It didn't matter how many bandages littered his fingers from nicks and scrapes and close calls, and it didn't matter how many times Wilbur yelled that it was dangerous or begged him to stop messing around with weapons until he finally agreed to use a wooden dummy sword for practice. (He ended up just doing it at night instead, hidden away from Wilbur's anxious eyes as the man collapsed into his bed. It was his loss falling victim to the need for sleep, and it wasn't like Tommy wasn't being careful.)_

_The next day, Tubbo and Tommy showed off his newfound talent to everyone else. Despite his nagging, even Wilbur clapped when Tommy boasted, a fond smile tugging at his lips as he shook his head and muttered about stubborn children and dumb luck. Tommy stuck his tongue out in the most childish way he could manage, and the laughter bolstered him up until he could practically touch the sun._

_It was worth it. In that moment it was all worth it, and Tommy had never been prouder in his entire life.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've hidden this in the bottom notes to deter anyone who isn't familiar with my writing or my style, haha. 
> 
> I've been writing THIS fic for around a week and a half now, absurd I know, and I've been really enjoying the process. But I feel as though I've been getting a tad bit stuck between each chapter for inspiration. Solution? Short writing breaks — in the form of short one-shots, like the Schlatt POV chapter I posted seperately to the actual story. 
> 
> If you have an idea for a snippet, feel free to comment it. I may pick one or two to mess around with if I find some that strike my fancy. Keep in mind that I may not end up filling any of them though! I am making no promises, my dear readers, because writing THIS story takes quite a bit of time in itself. If the snippet fits into the AU, I'll add it to the series. If not, I'll just add it to a separate one, since I publish all my works anonymously. 
> 
> As an extra and vitally important note, I will not accept ANY requests that involve shipping real people. (I also won't be doing anything that would need a long/multi-chapter format, because if I do end up picking a few, the intention would be to use the process to wind down and relax a bit.)
> 
> Detailed Summary:
> 
> Tommy accompanies Technoblade on his trip to a village, where the goal is to gain mending books for a future set of netherite armour. On the way back home, Technoblade offers to train him in combat.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy trains, and Techno has news. One of those things are significantly better than the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man. So, a whole week between updates, huh? 
> 
> I struggled with this chapter more than any of the previous ones, and I'm still not entirely certain I'm happy with this. But this has been the longest wait I've imposed on my readers since I've begun this odd journey, so I figured you deserved to get your content. 
> 
> So, here we are. Three actual stress migraines and a week of absent time later, finally reaching something that will hopefully push us toward the actual plotline I have planned. It's a long one too! 7,100 words. I sincerely hope you enjoy. We've finally hit over 40,000 words. Pog? 
> 
> As always, comments, kudos, and feedback of any kind feed my exhuasted soul.

_There were endless names for eternity. The expanse of impossibility tended to inspire those that sought knowledge, and it tended to scare those who cowered from change. And yet, in all its forms, eternity never held the same name. The definition never stayed the same. Tommy took an eternity to run to Wilbur, legs burning and eyes clouded with terror. It took Dream an eternity plus one meager second to turn it all to dust._

_In that way, eternity was much like a sheet of tempered glass, strong and clear, and yet so easy to melt and crush. Tommy felt a bit like eternity, as he stared at the walls of Pogtopia._

_Strangely enough, it applied to the future in a different way._

_Time passed like sludge, and nightmares haunted his every breath. This did not change. But eternity, ever shifting, took on a new form in a fleeting moment of mercy. Shed the skin of a nightmare and allowed a flash of light to shine through._

_For one moment, he could swim, and he saw glimpses of enchanted books and glittering tools. Bright torches and worn down sheilds._

_For one moment, there was peace._

\-----

+

\-----

Tommy felt like his skin was buzzing, but not in the way that he'd grown uncomfortably accustomed to. Not with the wretched static, with the near painful pins and needles that pricked at his nerves until every graze of his shirt against his arm made him wince in misplaced physical agony. No, this buzzing was not the buzz of hatred, nor the buzz of panic. 

Tommy, for the first time in what felt like _years,_ was excited. 

Ever since they'd returned from their trip to the village, arms full of mending books and spirits lifted a little higher, Tommy's brain had been quietly buzzing with the not-quite-promise that Techno had made to him, bathed in the orange glow of the sun sinking below the horizon. Tommy's brain had clutched onto the offer of training — training, _really training_ — with Technoblade with a vigor that he hadn't known he was still capable of. It was the closest he'd felt to his old self in ages, thoughts dragged secondary to the thought of what he'd sought after for so long. 

See, Tommy had asked Technoblade to train him plenty of times. In their brief encounters, the question almost always came up at least once, whether it was in joking passing or in serious pleas, the answer was always a firm _no._ Technoblade didn't take students, he was busy training himself. Technoblade didn't take students, he was busy fighting an incredibly vague war. Technoblade didn't take students, he just didn't feel like it. 

Knowing what he did now, funnily enough, Tommy completely believed every single "excuse". When he was brash and young and too far up his own ideals to notice, he'd assumed Techno simply hadn't liked him. With the context of now, Tommy was more curious as to what opponent he was fighting for Techno to always be smeared in dirt and potato scraps when he'd been fighting a war. 

In any case, Tommy was buzzing. The unfamiliarity of the excitement actually hurt a bit, like strong heartburn or a chest ache. His hand was slick with sweat around his sheild, and he scoffed as he wiped his palms off on his jeans for the fifth time. Across from him, Technoblade was still examining the edge of a wooden sword, swinging it in experimental blows at invisible enemies. To Tommy it seemed that he was in perfect form, but Techno only looked more and more visibly… strained? Stressed or upset wasn't exactly the right word, but it was clear enough that he wasn't pleased with whatever it was he was doing wrong. 

To Tommy's silent relief, eventually Techno seemed to tire of limitations that only he could see, because the man pulled out his shield and tucked his wooden sword to the sheath at the side before striding forward, nodding toward him. 

"Right," Techno began, as casual as ever, "I want you to lunge at me. Really try and hit me. I need to see what I'm workin' with here." 

Tommy nodded slowly, pushed his body down a bit to find his center of gravity. The wooden sword he held felt a bit awkward in his hand too, if he was honest. It was lighter than what he was used to, and not nearly as sharp, although the latter was less of an issue than the former. 

Even so, eventually he gained enough courage to push forward. He launched himself off the ground and lunged, throwing his blade out with as much force as he could control. Techno moved in a blur, twisted his body and parried before Tommy could even register the movement. His sword was knocked upward and his arm thrown back, and Techno kicked out his leg. He hit Tommy square in the chest, sending him flying backward, wind shoved forcefully from his lungs as he went tumbling to the ground. 

Tommy hacked up a lung — or at least it felt like it — as he shakily pulled himself to all fours. The netherite chestplate he wore had absorbed some of the force, but his chest felt a bit like the result of ringing a bell. 

"Eh," Techno called blandly, and Tommy glanced at him through heaving breaths, "your form isn't bad, but your reaction time was slow and you weren't ready for a direct hit by anything but the blade. You can't keep your eyes on the sword by itself, Tommy. You gotta be aware of all your surroundin' threats. Try again when you're ready." 

Tommy swallowed hard and tried to force air back into his lungs. As the need eased, Tommy reevaluated what happened to the best of his ability. He swallowed around a dry lump in his throat and his excitement melded into something like determination. 

Slowly, he reached to the side and picked up the shield again. 

+

If Tommy still had the wherewithal to have a baseline, he probably would have been surprised by how easy it was to slide back to a new "normal" after a while. He even knew — vaguely as it was — how he might have reacted to things, had he and his past self swapped places. All the blunted edges sharpened again, all the fears packed away as distant possibilities instead of concrete memories. 

He went on more trips with Technoblade after the first, and with each passing try it grew easier and easier. He'd shove whatever Technoblade needed into his bag and tote it around, and in-between each trip he would reach for his sword, axe, or shield. 

Training with Technoblade was a bit like training with a robot placed on an effective randomizer, and Tommy found himself flat in the dirt more often than not. Despite that, he was improving. The first time he almost got a hit on Technoblade had given him a burst of adrenaline, enough that he'd been able to push himself to train for nearly three hours straight, even though he only managed to land grazes afterwards. Techno had sat beside him after, handed him a cold water bottle as he heaved and coughed and put a steady hand on his back. 

Technoblade was both a good and a bad teacher. Fighting came so naturally to him, it seemed, that it was strange to see that Tommy couldn't quite think of things in the same manner that he did. He didn't look at someone and immediately note down their weak spots, didn't fight someone and immediately know their strategies. But in the same manner as he did everything else, Techno devoted himself to being a better one, if not the conventional sort. He'd instruct Tommy on footwork mid-swing, parry away blows as he explained the intricacies of angles and surprise attacks. Tommy learned the most when Technoblade executed those techniques, live demonstrations between sessions on enemy mobs. A stray skeleton, a couple of zombies. Whatever fit the bill. 

It was odd, but it worked. Tommy found a lot of interest in it, mentally noted down the things Techno would say whilst nursing the aching of his bruised joints. The first time he managed to land a proper hit — one that was of impact instead of unpredictability — left him speechless, and Techno had promptly kicked his feet out from under him and held a wood blade to his throat. Even so, he had seen the faintest hints of a smile tug at the corners of Techno's mouth, even as he lectured him about keeping his eyes on what actually mattered. 

_"One blow,"_ Techno said, _"is not goin' to be enough to kill them before they kill you. Not if they're worth their salt."_

Even with that sentiment hanging over his head, Tommy couldn't help but feel elated. Techno had ended the session shortly thereafter, leaving Tommy to bandage his moderate wounds. (The impact of a blade meeting a shield, surprisingly enough, actually ached something awful after a while.) A single hit was a single hit, sure. And maybe it wouldn't have been a lethal hit, or even an effective one. But it _was_ a hit, and it was solid, foundations within skill instead of dumb luck. It was more than he'd ever have been able to do before — and that meant he was _progressing._

Tommy of the present had his head buried in less violent work though, cursing as shaky fingers nearly caused the needle to stick into his skin. At the third near miss, he set it down and grumbled inaudibly, tempted to throw the bandages he was attempting to make into the garbage and start anew. 

"You're too focused on gettin' it perfect," Techno called, "you just need to get it functional." He set the empty glass bottle in his hands on the crafting table, balanced steadily on the stone wall. 

Tommy huffed and ran a hand through his hair. It was growing longer than he'd like, but it had been a long time since he was comfortable letting anyone cut his hair with a sword when it was still short enough to make him nervous. Not that he didn't trust Techno, but the sensation of anything near his neck made him feel more anxious than he was willing to admit aloud. 

"Easy for you to say," he mumbled, "this shit comes easy to you." 

It wasn't entirely true and they both knew it. Things came easily to Technoblade often — but certain fields alluded him like a whisper of a bygone era, tinged with nostalgia and impossible to reach. 

Technoblade puffed out a breath of bemused air — as close as he ever seemed to properly get to a laugh — and strode back toward Tommy. He held out an open palm, a roll of his example bandages set right in the middle. 

"It's not rocket science, Tommy. It's just sewin'."

"Just sewing," Tommy repeated in a terrible attempt at mimicry, although now it was more just inexperience than any damage to his throat; "just sewing he says. Look at this shit." 

He lifted up a mass of string and wool, hung loosely in tendrils that looked vaguely like shredded vines. Techno's eyes widened near imperceptibly, but Tommy felt a smile tug at him anyway. It was so hard to make Techno laugh — Tommy wasn't sure he'd ever seen it properly. 

Techno reached out his free hand and Tommy deposited the wreck of an attempt into it, watched with a dry snort as Techno pulled at its tangled knots. 

It was within moments like that where Tommy felt the most stable; the closest to whatever it was he used to be. To the bright eyed kid with a loud mouth and louder ideals, determined to strangle victory from the bloodied, greedy hands of defeat. Tommy felt hints of it in his aspirations, in the itch of his fingers and the ache of his hands when he was stagnant for too long. He felt hints of that old life, felt the tug of the outdoors when he'd been buried under the ground for too long. Felt it the most when he ventured out with Technoblade, like he had on the most recent trips. They'd all been a bit of a balm to his soul — even if they were a little shorter than Techno's adventures alone. 

But, just as they arrived, those hints tended to fade into the background. The sparks hit nothing but dampened stone, bled into smoldering piles until that too went out once more. He was tired often, although he didn't have the bags that seemed determined to perpetually stain Techno's eyelids. He was shakier, footholds always suspect. It was too easy to fall, with the ground made of his own memories and his boots woven with lead in-between leather fibers and old rubber. He was lucky enough to often have Technoblade by his side, support that made it so when he stumbled and lost his balance there was a second chance to pull them back to the top — the man was always there, a quiet patient force that would set steady hands on his shoulders and guide his heaving gasps for dry air until he could see clearly again.

"I don't even know how you did this," Technoblade murmured. His tone was as monotone as it ever was, but the flat edge faded enough to sound nearly shocked. Tommy couldn't help but snicker. 

"If I knew, I wouldn't have done it in the first place," Tommy replied dryly. His sentences had grown shorter, in his time with Technoblade. A part of him found it strange — but the rest relished in the quiet. _If it was a chosen silence, it was not a haunted one._

Techno tugged at the mess for another minute before he set it down, although Tommy didn't think for a minute that he'd given up. Techno would sooner spend five hours on one miniscule project than admit defeat too early, it was a quirk of his intimidatingly stubborn nature. Symptoms of his scarily effective methodology. His eye was drawn to the netherite chest-plate that was laid out on an armour stand, the shape of its form nearly standing guard where it waited beside the entrance to the mines. 

_Full netherite armour,_ he remembered thinking incredulously, _he had full netherite armour on day fucking two._

Techno was looking at him. Tommy turned to meet his gaze, only to watch as it followed Tommy's eyeline to the netherite set. Something about his gaze grew heavy, like he was contemplating something, and Tommy left him to his thoughts, unbothered by the sudden drop of the conversation. He'd more than grown comfortable with that, now. 

+

One peculiar day Technoblade woke him up, backlit by a sky without a sun or moon. He pressed the training sword into Tommy's hand and led him outside without speaking a word, cloak billowing with something that almost felt like a threat — or whatever the non lethal version of it would be. When Techno pushed his beaten netherite chestplate close to him though, it clicked. Training. Spontaneous morning training, apparently, and the oddness of it made Tommy slower than he usually was, although that could have been fairly attributed to the fact that he'd only just woken up. As he slid his chestplate on, he wondered just what it was that was so important. 

"Heads up." 

And then the first small rock flew right past him, centimeters away from his body. 

_Oh shit._

They slid back into their training routine, although Tommy did notice that they seemed to avoid anywhere that would actually hurt him until he actually managed to wake up enough to figure out what was going on. He started by blocking with his shield, but it eventually evolved into active dodging as he swung the sword out in wide sweeping arcs, almost a sharpened — not really — one handed baseball bat. 

The sky was only just beginning to turn properly blue with the rising sun when Technoblade finally called it quits, and Tommy collapsed into an exhausted heap, tumbled to the ground on his back and heaved for breath with his arms sore and limp at his sides. The sword fell from his fingertips somewhere along the line, and he could only hope he wasn't laid out awkwardly on top of it. 

"Good enough," Techno called as he kicked one of the errant rocks away. He walked toward him, hand outstretched and a carefully blank expression on his face. Tommy took it after a moment of hesitation, wheezing something akin to a laugh weakly, more from relief than mirth. 

If he was honest with himself, it always felt pretty damn cool to be able to deflect projectiles like some kind of expert when it worked. He'd managed to deflect a decent amount of them this time, but he still got hit enough for it to ache when Techno pulled him to his feet. 

"What was that even for, Technoblade?" Tommy muttered, falsely bitter as he took an outstretched healing potion from Techno's hands. The pig-man's lips tugged into something that was almost a smile, and Tommy tried to pretend he didn't choke a bit from surprise as he chugged the healing potion down. 

"For your own good," Techno shrugged, the picture of innocence, and wasn't that just hilarious; "skeletons only have so many arrows, and sendin' the fireballs back to the ghasts is basically the easiest way to kill 'em. Fightin' one on one is all fine and dandy, but it never hurts to have a few extra tricks up your sleeve." 

Tommy huffed, tossed the empty glass bottle back without warning as the beginnings of bruises on his arms began to fade. He was only a little impressed when Techno snagged it from the air by the bottleneck, not even a moment of hesitation or fumbling. He stretched a little, pulled back his shoulders and twisted his torso to try and loosen up his healing muscles, absorbing the strange warmth that magic always offered while it worked. Eventually, he tilted his head up and caught Techno's watchful eye. 

"Not what I meant," Tommy grumbled, "what's with the morning session?" 

Techno gave a muted shrug, tossed the bottle up into the air and caught it again. 

"It never hurts to be ready, Tommy." 

It was strangely cryptic for Techno and it wasn't the answer that Tommy was looking for, but the potion had done it's work, and the buzz of temporary healing energy flooded Tommy's muscles like liquid fire. He felt like a million bucks. So, when he shrugged a little and reached for the wooden sword, planted his feet heavily into the ground with a spark of an unspoken challenge, he tried not to be overtly pleased when Technoblade responded in kind, serious gaze sharpening to the edge of a sword. 

+

After they'd cooled down somewhat — and by _they,_ he meant Tommy — Tommy had decided to spare a few moments for a detour to the river to wash a bit of the sweat from his hair, and a few moments more to jokingly gripe about the ache of his muscles and the spontaneous nature of their training sessions. He half expected Techno to indulge him in the only way he ever did — with a blank expression and a slightly amused huff of air. Tommy pushed his wet hair from his eyes with half a grin. But the puff didn't come, and while Techno met his gaze, his eyes slowly shifted away. With it, Tommy's smile slid off his face like it had been washed away by the water. 

_Something was wrong._

"... Techno?" 

He didn't reply. For some reason, Tommy felt the urge to push. 

"Techno, talk to me big man. What's wrong?" 

Tommy wouldn't say that he _knew_ in the moment that the time for more lighthearted banter had passed the moment that it did, but there was a part of him that sunk into himself with an odd sense of dread as Technoblade shifted where he stood. The man's expression was near unreadable, as it always was. He wasn't surprised when Techno spoke, heavy-lidded gaze finally moving back to Tommy with an unfamiliar, slow quality that dragged like old sandpaper. He _was_ surprised when the words registered.

How strange it was, the way things could shift so quickly. The way they could go from smooth stones on the bed of a lazy river to the jagged cliffs that mercilessly littered the end of a waterfall.

"I've been thinkin'," Techno said, expression taut, "and I think I might need to head to the nether soon, Tommy." 

_Oh._

It should have made a decent amount of sense, shouldn't it? The nether was the next step — something they'd have to do if they wanted to actually _get_ him a full set of netherite armour. His old chestplate had been too close to useless by the time they'd returned with mending books, and Techno figured it would be better just to make a new one and put mending on it from the get-go. Tommy had been using it exclusively for training sessions, and he was sure it was due to break any day now, and it wasn't like they had a surplus of the stuff. At some level he'd known it was deteriorating, and he knew that they didn't have much — if any — netherite left over. 

Tommy hadn't been to the nether much since the start of the first wars, before even the split of the Dream SMP. If it weren't for the transport system Tubbo had made it into, he probably would have never gone there at all. It was full of supplies that hung tantalizingly within the reach of errant travellers. But alongside the glittering gold, the quartz that refracted light and the marbled glimmer of netherbrick, death reigned like a silent reaper. You were never safe in the nether, not with the beasts that waited there. 

There were the ghasts; giant, tentacled, constantly sobbing monsters. They were _massive_ , nearly all encompassing. They were prized to a point because their tears — if bottled or dried — could be used for regeneration potions, health potion's stronger, more potent cousins. The danger of gathering the stuff was enough to make them ridiculously expensive. Ghasts flew like falsified ghosts, spat fireballs that burst and turned the ground to sparks on horrific impact. It was like a giant flying creeper with more than one explosion in it's arsenal. 

There were the magma cubes; giant smoldering beasts that leaked lava like demented slimes. One touch would burn your flesh, and the damn things wouldn't _die._ You could hack away at a large one for hours, cut it right down the middle, and be stuck with two enemies instead of one. They multiplied with every separate blow, and the lava never cooled.

Blazes; creatures of fire and smouldering rage. They were like a sick mixture of both, flaming and flying and so fucking _deadly_. They soared above your head and shot fire at your feet, all whilst swinging searing hot rods in an attempt to set you aflame. They sounded like metal, and hitting them with a sword made your limbs ring like you'd hit the inside of a church bell. 

And then there were the ones that were rumored to summon a beast if you gathered enough of their heads, if you could pick them up before they crumbled to toxic dust. 

Wither skeletons were gangly things, charcoal grey and taller than any ordinary skeleton ought to be. Instead of a bow and arrow they wielded stone swords, and Tommy felt like it must have been some kind of sick bait, a demented joke meant to lure in the foolhardy or the cocky. They might have been using a weak weapon, but it didn't matter in the slightest. They could use a fucking wooden sword for all he cared — the weapon wasn't the problem. 

It was the _poison_. 

Nobody knew what to call it, much less how it was done. It was a sickly, grey rot, poison in its truest form. It was why armour was so important there. If you were lucky enough to live long enough for it to fade, you'd likely be killed by the oncoming mobs that could sense your fragility. Tommy had never met anyone who survived. 

The point was, most of the things in the nether were specifically designed to kill you in some of the most agonizing ways possible. It was a hell dimension for a reason, and it was the only place they'd find—

"Netherwart and netherite ingots," Techno listed matter-of-factly, although something about him bled a certain amount of displeasure; "we need both, but we're almost completely out of netherwart, Tommy. I've been meanin' to go for a while." _But I couldn't leave until now,_ went unsaid. 

Tommy knew damn well that the speed of the trip to the nether was a non-issue. The issue laid only in the danger you willingly or unwillingly encountered, the places you ventured to sneak the supplies away. 

"You want to go to a fortress?" 

His lips were pursed into a fine white line, pale with pressure. 

"Yes." 

Techno's tone was at odds with his body language. His voice seemed borderline blasé, like there was no difference between his trips for wood and his trips to another dimension. Perhaps for him, there really wasn't any. The thought brought Tommy a bit of absurd comfort, but the concept could only bring him so far. Technoblade wanted to venture into the nether dimension, and the nether was one place that Tommy knew he couldn't follow. Not with the fires that burned everywhere without fuel, not with the bombs that ghasts spat from the sky that turned the floor to dust. Not with the suffocating smoke and the — _fire oh god, everything was on fire, why did he look —_ bubble of lava that burned below the feet of weary travellers. 

Through the ring of realization, Tommy realized that Techno's posture was curled uncomfortably, fingertips tapping absently against his knuckles. Yet another oddity; Techno didn't fidget. 

"I wouldn't have to go right away," Techno said through a layer of static that Tommy had to fight away, "it'd take me a while to build the portal, get some supplies together. Probably wouldn't be for another few weeks. But we _need_ the netherwart, Tommy." 

He knew that. They relied so heavily on healing potions, and Techno's eyes had dragged on the chests with each passing moment for days now. But he'd thought there had been more _time._

Had Tommy been anyone else — hell, had he been _himself_ a few mere months ago — he probably would have assumed the sentence was over, and Techno would have let it drop. As it was, he kept his mouth shut. Techno, as he suspected, continued. The casual form was still there, but it slowly began to bleed into something new. Something that made Tommy's skin feel a bit too tight, something that made him dig his fingers just a bit tighter into the rough fabric of his jeans. 

Tommy barely heard what came next, and yet it barreled through him with a weight of painful realization and crystalline clarity. Techno's voice sounded physically strained.

"Look I... it's better to tell you now. The trip probably isn't going to be short. Not like the others." 

Techno rarely ever said anything that wasn't absolutely, one hundred percent necessary. He didn't bother mincing words, or playing into the minor ups and downs of mundane small talk. He was more of an observer, always watching and analyzing anything and everything that happened around him. With it only being him and Tommy — and it _was_ only them, in all the ways that mattered it was only them — for such a long time, the need to appease social pressures had lessened considerably. 

But Tommy still remembered the face Technoblade would make during those conversations. During the days where he would stand awkwardly to the side from whatever group they were in, hand resting on the hilt of his sword beneath the cover of his cloak because he initially disliked the weight of an axe. He remembered the terseness of his jaw, the tense stare he'd give to anyone who looked for too long. It was intimidating, and it was his first line of defense. Tommy saw it now for the first time in months, simmering underneath the surface. It must have been an effort to stuff it down, to keep the rawness of the moment instead of pushing it off. Tommy understood that, vaguely, under the layer of rippling water that threatened to somehow burn him away like acid. 

Technoblade was uncomfortable. Tommy felt a little of the ache ease at that, at the knowledge that he wasn't floundering alone. Guilt rose as a secondary shadow. 

_Misery and company,_ he thought to himself, almost bitterly. 

"How long are we talking, big man?" He asked, if nothing more than just to participate. It didn't help that his voice was small — smaller than it had been for a while, and he could feel the sudden pressure of it squeezing down further on the once amicable atmosphere. He winced, mourned it for a moment as he tried to force the anxiety out of his tone. Techno sighed, ran heavy ungloved hands through his hair. 

"I don't know," Techno said, and it sounded like an admission and a promise all at once; "I'll try to keep it short. I don't really plan on stayin' any longer than I absolutely have to. Maybe a few days. Less. I just didn't want to go springin' the news on you right before I left." 

Techno wouldn't quite meet his eyes, and that felt wrong on a level that Tommy couldn't help but detest. It felt like losing ground — like he was being swept away by a wave that he couldn't possibly hope to swim against, and he couldn't let that happen. All he and Techno had were one another, now. He couldn't lose him in the riptide. 

_(Not him too, please.)_

Tommy didn't reach out, not quite. But he did push himself up a little higher, forced his back to straighten with as much reassurance and false bravado as he could muster. He did what he could and tried to dig in his heels, pushed back with as much force as he could muster. 

"Techno." 

The pig-man took a moment to look up, and Tommy swallowed hard around the dry lump in his throat. He clasped his own clammy hands together, pleaded silently for the strength to breathe evenly, and then opened his palms again with an approximation of an appeasing gesture. When he exhaled, it felt like liquid nitrogen. 

"Just get back safe, alright?" 

It wasn't total acceptance. Tommy could feel it hanging in their silence like the air itself had been infected by smog, and he wanted nothing more but to shove it all out. But all he could do was look, speak, and hope desperately that Technoblade understood what he meant. He didn't want him in the fucking nether, not with the fire and the bombs and the pools of lava that swept down and burned away the cocky when they expected it the least. He didn't want Technoblade to go. But he trusted that he could — trusted that he could survive, that he could claw his way out of any mess with that same familiar expression on his face. That same, near cocky smirk that wasn't quite a smile. 

_Technoblade never dies._ A catchphrase that didn't mean quite what it used to, but that meant enough to make him let go. 

Tommy trusted Technoblade. What he needed was for Technoblade to trust in _him._ To trust that Tommy could be alone without him, even if it was only for a few days. To trust that he could survive, that he could find his own way out of the maze. He needed Techno to trust him, because he wasn't sure if he could find his own golden string — he needed Technoblade to offer it, or he would grasp at weakened straws that would inevitably snap, straws that would leave him lost on a crumbling foothold. Tommy wasn't sure what would happen if he fell. 

Techno stared at him for a moment, ran his fingers through his hair a final time, and Tommy felt the tense atmosphere begin to crack under the pressure of cobblestone acceptance. 

"... Okay," Technoblade said. _Okay._

When Tommy smiled at him in reply, he tried to pretend that it didn't ache. He didn't fool anyone — not himself, and certainly not Technoblade. But the unspoken agreement was a quiet salve to the burn, enough to soften the ragged edges of a wound. Enough to let them both dig in their heels and take a breath, stolen from the breadth of the world outside of their cave. 

Techno stood slowly, like the moment and it's weight dragged him down. 

"I'm goin' to stay and fish downstream. Try and get somethin' else for dinner." 

Techno always told him what he was doing, even if it was the most absurd non-issue of a thing. He was going out for water, he was going out for wood, he was gathering more enderpearls. Whatever it was, Tommy was always informed. He always knew where Techno was going when he left, always had an estimate of when he'd come back. And save for a few minor shifts, Techno was almost always on time. Always back before dawn, before nightfall, within the hour. He never seemed to say anything he didn't mean, there was never any guesswork as to what undertones might lie underneath his words. If he didn't want to talk, he'd say so. If he didn't have an answer, he wouldn't give one. 

It helped. A lot of things that Technoblade did helped, and he never seemed to want to take any credit for any of it. Tommy's weak thank-yous had always been met with an almost confused shrug from the start, a steady pat on his shoulder as Technoblade went about his day. He never seemed bothered by it. By what Tommy needed — he never asked questions or drew heavy attention to it. He knew that Tommy needed to know about it to feel stable — needed a little time to adjust to new information in ways that frustrated even Tommy sometimes, to the point where he wasn't sure he'd even acknowledge it if Techno didn't work so seamlessly around it all. 

Tommy took a deep breath and ran his bandaged hands over his face. He sat beside the riverbed for a while, unmoving, and tried to reconcile new information with the old. Eventually he would have to get up, to hobble back to their home base. 

But for now, he sat and he watched the river flow, and tried to pretend that the roar of it could block out his thoughts. 

+

Right on the cusp of evening, when the sun began to turn the sky a vibrant orange, Technoblade returned to the cave with a bucket full of clean water and two fish. The latter were slung over his arm on strings Tommy hadn't known the man kept on him. He wasn't sure how he'd caught them, but he wasn't one to complain. As skillful as Technoblade was when it came to potato preparation, it never hurt to add something different to their diets. 

Tommy pushed himself off of the bed and sat down heavily on the stone they'd arranged into a bench. Techno sat down beside him in a heavy heap, cloak billowing outward like a crimson wave. The beige furs at the top served almost as the crest of the bloodied ocean, and Tommy knew there should have been something vaguely wrong with how much comfort he found in it's presence. He pushed it aside and reached for the fish, taking them and carefully pulling the string from their mouths as Techno pulled out a flint and steel, sending sparks into the furnace without a word. 

They had fish and potatoes that night, both smothered in salt and butter and the echoes of a conversation that both of them would rather forget. But they ate together, defiant of the urge to run or avoid. They had nowhere to go, and they had nothing but time. They had nothing but each other, and Tommy chose to find comfort in that, hell to the anxieties that whispered quiet fears like a constant soundtrack to his every movement, _fuck that._ He knew what Techno was capable of, even if other parts of him refused to believe it. 

They ate, backs pressed to the stone of their cave and near smothered by Techno's cloak. And when Technoblade stood to dust his hands off, Tommy didn't look away. He didn't turn his back, even as Techno reached for another baked potato, a water bottle that neither of them had ever used. Even as he reached for his pickaxe — as he strode with a careful, level gaze toward the out-of-place cobblestone embedded in their walls. Tommy watched him vanish down the staircase that he had spent so long trying to convince himself wasn't there. He counted the steps as they echoed, and counted them again as they rose. When Technoblade was preparing to seal it again, Tommy stood. He grabbed him by the arm, stopped him before he could place the first block with hands he and Techno both knew were shaky enough to push away. He didn't. 

"It could use an actual door," he said, quietly.

_He wasn't sure if he'd be able to break it every day._

After a moment, Technoblade nodded his head, cobblestone vanishing from his grip as he set his pickaxe to the side. 

A dark oak door was carefully hammered into the wall that night, pinned flush to the stone with a glittering golden handle. Neither of them spoke another word about it. 

+

Two days passed, and the tension remained. Tommy hated the idea that it was there to stay — that it would look over their heads until Techno finally headed off to a dimension that Tommy truly couldn't follow him to. The world was already upside down, Tommy needed the weight of gravity to pull him back to earth. 

He tugged the bandages a little tighter around his knuckles, but Techno's quietly admonishing voice sounded off in his head, reminding him that poorly done jobs could cause more problems than they were worth. 

Ever since he'd begun properly training with Technoblade, his hands had been almost perpetually wrapped up, like some kind of athlete or professional fighter. It had begun to feel kind of cool, if he was being honest, and he'd gotten into the habit of squeezing his hands in and out of a fist. It was better when it was for prevention — something he controlled, something he could do to prevent more pain instead of in response to it. He sighed and unspooled the wrap, resigned to starting from the beginning again. 

"Tommy." 

For once the cloak was nowhere to be found on either of their shoulders. Techno's upper body was exposed, white shirt smeared with dust as he tugged his sleeves back down and into place. Soot coated his palms as he dusted them off on his pants, lips pulled into a serious line. When Tommy looked up properly, Techno gestured for him to follow. 

"I've got somethin' to give you. C'mere real quick." 

Techno waited with his arms crossed, leant against the entrance to their mine. It was only when Tommy had gotten close enough that he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small glass bottle — and it _was_ small, smaller than any of the other bottles Tommy had seen, more of a vial than anything — that glowed so intensely that it initially almost hurt to look at before his eyes adjusted. Tommy blinked a few times, vision refocusing as he realized just what Techno had in his hands. His eyes blew involuntarily wide, and he struggled to find words in the wake of the impact. 

_A regeneration potion._

Tommy wasn't exactly surprised that he _had_ it as much as he was baffled as to where it came from. The subject of a nether trip had been a pretty new development, and Techno had given no indication of already having anything that they'd get there. Techno tipped it a little in nimble fingers, tapped the edge of the glass with an unreadable expression. The liquid inside almost seemed to ripple despite not having much room to do so, like the light itself was shifting at the touch.

"I've been lookin' for it, and I found it again while I was clearin' out some old tools. I figured we might be able to put it to good use now." Techno seemed to weigh it in his hands for a moment, eyes narrowed and scrutinizing as he examined the bottle. Aside from the small size, it seemed pretty typical. Funny, because if regeneration potions were anything, they were not _typical._ Even the lowest, most amateur grade sorts were usually able to heal more than the strongest of healing potions. The better ones, albeit rare, were rumored to combat even withering almost entirely. They were something special, something absolutely expensive, and something that no sane person would find it within themselves to waste. 

So when Technoblade held it out to him, Tommy's brain skipped like a broken record player. 

"..?" 

"Are you just gonna stare at it?" Techno asked, like it wasn't some kind of madness to give a regeneration potion away. Tommy gaped. 

"Techno," he breathed, almost a chuckle, but this was too serious to laugh at; "you can't — come on man, that's crazy." Wouldn't he need it? Of all people, wouldn't he need it most? 

Technoblade wasn't laughing, not that he usually would anyway. He looked entirely, unequivocally, dead serious. Tommy's disbelief began to crumble at the corners, shivering like weakened wood in the face of Technoblade's willful faith. 

"Techno?" 

"We only have one of these for now, Tommy. You can only afford to use it if the situation starts gettin' really bad, do you understand me?" 

Techno's voice was level and almost strict, piercing enough to threaten to set Tommy aflame. Still, he reached out and grabbed Tommy's hand with a particular gentleness, set the potion bottle in his palm with a surety that Tommy found absurd. Techno must have taken his silence as some kind of acceptance, because he turned on his heel and broke the moment without even the slightest bit of effort, headed right back down the tunnel he'd emerged from. But right before that he paused, only for a moment, and reached out. 

His hand was steady as ever on Tommy's shoulder, grip firm and grounding. 

"We'll have more of them soon, Tommy." 

The promise echoed in the air like concentrated reassurance. A reminder that _yes, Technoblade had done this before._ He had done it, and he would be perfectly fine. As if echoing the sentiment, the near neon pink potion shimmered in his hand, pleasantly warm and almost comforting by nature. Tommy stared at it for — _(months, seconds, hours, years)_ — a moment before he carefully flicked open his bag. 

Techno watched him put it away, waited a few more seconds with a gaze Tommy couldn't quite decipher. Then he was gone, swept down one of their tunnels with a pickaxe materializing in his hands. It was odd, really, how Techno continued gathering ores they had in spades, but Tommy wasn't complaining. Anything for a bit more time. 

He set the potion carefully inside, cushioned by layers of soft fabric and sturdy leather, and he turned and went back to his bandages. 

_Try, try, and try again._

\-----

+

\-----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that the next chapters fight me less my dear readers, because this one was a painful monster, haha. I'm very sorry for the sudden wait. I didn't think it would be a hard one to write. On the upside, I think the next chapter is coming along with a bit more ease, and hopefully won't give me any headaches.
> 
> Also as a sidenote, I've been considering adding more detailed summaries to these ending note sections, in case people are looking for specific chapters? I'm not sure if it's necessary, but the summaries I put on the top are usual more "artsy" than helpful. Thoughts?
> 
> Detailed Summary: Tommy trains with Technoblade, which brings up his mood considerably. Unfortunately though, Technoblade announces that they are far too low on healing potions, which means he needs to go on a trip to the nether.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Techno momentarily out of the picture, Tommy is left alone. 
> 
> Kind of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter pog? 
> 
> Thankfully, I managed to write a lot of this without the horrific processes from last time, haha. This chapter came a lot easier to me, which gives me hope for the future. That being said, thank you to everyone who asked about my health last time. Rest assured though, I'm doing perfectly fine, and hopefully will be able to get the story back on track. As of now, I will also be putting detailed summaries in the end notes for your reading convenience, in case you're searching for a particular part of the story <3
> 
> As a final note before we begin, I was asked recently if fanart of this fic was okay, and I just wanted to put this out there; YES. An enthusiastic, neverending YES. I only ask that you let me know about it in the comments, because seeing fanart of my fic would genuinely bring me to tears, and I would treasure it till the end of time. 
> 
> As always, my dear readers, comments, kudos, and feedback of any kind push me to get the next chapter out ASAP. Please enjoy.

* * *

_Such a strange thing, independence. Celebrated and mourned, a concept of blood and freedom that soaked into the ground like acid rain._

_It was a poison and it was antivenom. The very virus that it was bred to kill._

_The battles had poisoned them, he thought, blinded by the lighting that cracked the sky in two. Poisoned what they had. Took nights laughing and singing around the fire and slammed then against the pavement, shattered guitars and used the splinters for arrows._

_And yet, as Tommy laid against the stone of the ground, he knew it was the only way it ever could have gone._

_And that was what hurt the most._

\-----

+

\-----

The following days — weeks? — melded together in one long blur, dragged by in rivers of sludge as he helped Techno prepare for his newest planned trip. Unfortunately though, as much as Tommy would have _liked_ to fizzle and fade into the background for once, he was far too alert to try. His thoughts refused to settle down and buzz away, instead whirling with possibilities that he did his best to organize into something recognizable. A series of events that he could grasp without feeling the heavy weight of impending doom — or something that felt like it, anyway. 

They still trained together regularly. It was the smallest of silver linings, but there wasn't much that could change about instruction, about shoddy footwork growing cleaner and improved agility growing faster still. On the days where he couldn't quite muster the energy but his limbs still needed to move, he would go mining instead. The methodical process was enough to clear his head, enough to give him a focus point that would move toward a particular goal. If he found diamonds along the way that was even better, a bonus to his absent plans. 

It was on one such day that Technoblade approached him, mid-swing, with his bag slung over his shoulder and a length of rope coiled around his hand. 

"I'm finally goin' to get my horses, Tommy." 

Tommy's hands stilled over the ore he was mining, arms ever so slightly sore from the constant movement and the impact of pick meeting stone, and he set his pickaxe to the side as he wiped at his face with his sleeve. Techno, when he peeked over his shoulder, looked as he usually did before he went on his short trips. Weapons sheathed carefully at his side, combat gloves, and a bag slung over his shoulder hidden beneath the safety of his cloak. The only reason Tommy saw it at all was because he had pushed it out of the way a bit to rest his hand against the strap, and the only reason he'd known to look was because of past experience. 

"Horses? Plural?" 

Tommy ran a hand through his hair, grimacing a little when it came away with a smear of black soot. He'd been a little reckless while mining coal, he'd need to take another bath before he could sleep. Techno inclined his head, still almost amusingly out of place amidst the — while orderly — mess of their mines. It was still an interesting juxtaposition, the flowing fabric of the cape and the glittering gold of his crown that never seemed to fall off, and the smatterings of rock chunks and ore that littered the floor. 

"Plural," Techno agreed, "We've exhausted some of the resources in the area. It'd probably be best if I started lookin' for supplies further out, give 'em a chance to catch up again," Techno pulled as close to a face as he ever did, "and I'm not tryin' to go all that way on foot. I'll probably be back sometime before evenin'." 

Tommy shifted his weight a little, rocking back and forth on the arch of his feet. Tommy couldn't see out into the world from the mines, but by his estimate it would only be around the afternoon, maybe even a little earlier than that. Eventually he shrugged, tugged quietly at the edge of his white sleeves.

"Makes sense. Good luck then, big man."

Techno gave a sharper nod this time, assurance bleeding into the movement as he shifted and allowed his cloak to cover him entirely once more and Tommy moved to turn away, but he didn't move. He didn't sweep out of the mines or make his way upstairs, and Tommy glanced back with a silent question. After a moment Techno sighed, and Tommy furrowed his brow with a decent amount of concern. Technoblade almost looked reluctant again, and when he spoke it was with an almost audible carefulness that Tommy wished he didn't understand the moment he completed his sentence. 

"I've got most of what I need," Techno said, "it probably won't be long now before I start workin' on the portal." 

Tommy stiffened a little, both at the statement and the quiet, unspoken apology that hung in the air like ashes. 

He didn't speak, and Techno didn't push him. The silence stretched overhead until it was thin enough to snap, but Techno waited until Tommy turned back to his stones to quietly step away. 

+

If Tommy had to guess, he would say that Techno had been ready to head to the nether for longer than he had initially let on. He had a few guesses as to _why_ exactly that was — some, even he could admit, more reasonable than others — but at the moment, as he dug the edge of a diamond pickaxe _again_ into the surface of an obsidian layer, he could have been convinced it was purely procrastination. 

There was a damn good reason why most people avoided having to go, and that was even if you disregarded the actual danger that littered the place. Not only was it hard to get there, but actually making a nether portal was an absolute pain in the ass. Three hours in and cumulatively they had enough to make half a portal frame, and Tommy was convinced his arms were going to fall from their sockets before they finished the job. Tommy hated mining obsidian. He hadn't ever met anyone who enjoyed it, really, even if they were willing to put in the work to do so. One wrong move and an entire block could snap right in half, ruin half an hour's worth of effort in one fell swoop.

 _It was some kind of sick divine joke,_ he thought bitterly as he shook off his numbed hands, _that the material was so hard to mine and yet so incredibly fragile._

Beside him, Techno was chipping away at a larger brick without seemingly breaking a sweat, expression set and serious as he dug the _Technodrill_ into the surface. He was as deadly efficient with this as he was anything else, but even his remarkable abilities weren't enough to make the obsidian break off in predictable pieces. 

"Jesus," Tommy muttered aloud, just to give himself a reason to pause, "how can anyone make these things consistently?"

Techno snorted, swung his pickaxe down in a particularly hard arc and _finally_ separated the piece he'd been so focused on from the rest. Tommy watched with exasperated eyes as Techno plopped it unceremoniously into the bag they'd allocated for it, and wondered with more than a hint of irritation how some people could supposedly build the portals in seconds. He'd heard the stories of course, almost everyone had. The rumors about people who could take molten lava by the bucketful and force it into shape, time the splash of water so perfectly that they could consistently make a stable portal without ever mining a stone. 

Unlike most people however, Tommy knew the stories were _true._ Most spent their time griping and muttering, mocking the legends with misplaced rage at their processes. But Tommy?

He knew it was true, because _Dream_ had specialized in it. 

In the days before, where everything had been simple, the man had always been on and on about speed. He'd babbled with a smile Tommy could hear despite the mask, waved his arms with idealistic thrill as he talked about his latest success. He'd worked on building speed portals for months, had promised to teach Tommy the ins-and-outs of it as soon as he could make three in a row. Dream had always been open to teaching him things, but Tommy had usually been too proud to listen, determined to figure things out himself. 

_Not that it mattered,_ he thought with a hint of an ancient ache, _since they'd never gotten around to that part._

His grip tightened. 

Tommy turned on his heel and slammed his pickaxe into the obsidian with newfound force as he imagined a white, mocking mask cracking right down the center. It was hasty, too quick and too unsteady, and his arms rang as he stumbled forward from the momentum of it. He nearly fell all the way forwards when he realized a moment too late that his pickaxe was actually embedded into the stone. Techno turned in a wave, and Tommy saw the way his cloak flew outward a bit as he reached quickly to steady him. 

"Sorry, sorry," Tommy murmured, whatever angry energy he'd gathered fizzling out in an instant; "got carried away." 

Techno patted him on the shoulder, eyes clear as day. 

"Don't go doin' anything stupid," Techno chided, "there could still be lava under some of this." 

Tommy knew he was right — after all, it was certainly hot enough to consider the possibility. Yet another terrible thing about mining obsidian; it had an unfortunate habit of being located near and made of molten rock.

"Right, sorry." He tried to give his tone a lighter edge as he tugged at the handle of his pickaxe, digging in his feet as he yanked it free. Surprisingly the block didn't shatter, and when he examined it it seemed like the pickaxe was totally fine. 

_Lucky break,_ he supposed. 

They settled back into their rhythm after that, pickaxes meeting slick rock in even opposing tandem. _One, two. One, two._ _One, two._

He wasn't exactly sure how long they worked at it before they were interrupted, a loud growling sound cracking through the air like a whip. He paused mid-swing, expression tight. 

"... Lunch break?" Techno prompted. Tommy chuckled weakly. Techno leant halfway on the handle of his pickaxe, propped up enough by the block he'd been newly focused on. 

"Yeah big man," he agreed, "what's cooking?"

He asked like he didn't know. He didn't mind so much though — even after all this time, Techno still made the best potatoes he'd ever had. 

+

Two days later, they stood before the frame with a new silence hanging over their heads, feet planted carefully on the heavy stone of their mine. Techno had opted to pull their obsidian to one of their less fruitful tunnels to build it there, instead of digging out a separate system. 

("We know these tunnels, Tommy," Techno explained, "we know how they're positioned, where each one of 'em leads. If a mob or somethin' shows up, we'll have the advantage. Never underestimate the power of surprise." 

It was a terribly cliché line, but clichés were tried and true for a reason. So Tommy had simply shrugged, reached for half the stones, and followed Techno's lead.)

Now the empty portal frame stood tall before them, stones set carefully to avoid any gaps or cracks in the surface. There were few things more dangerous than the nether itself; but a faulty portal was absolutely one of them. 

Ironically though, it didn't look like anything special. The frame, whilst steady, was chipped on the outside corners, and it was set into the wall right beside a couple blocks of cobblestone — a spot where Techno had mined out a few stray pieces of iron. It wasn't very dramatic looking, unlit and cobbled together. Tommy had certainly seen prettier nether portals — but it was functional above all else, and if that didn't describe their situation, nothing would. 

Beside him, Techno's netherite armour glittered. The pig-man was decked out to the nines, sword sheathed threateningly by his side, near parallel to his axe. He looked oddly unblemished despite the battle hardy nature of his gear, armour undented thanks to the shimmering protection of mending. 

_("Now that was a pain," Techno admitted to him one night, as the embers of their fire began to finally die out; "see, my first mistake was puttin' thorns on it first. It's hard to touch the thing without gettin' pricked.")_

He looked every inch the warrior he'd been rumored to be, too-tall and eyes nearly obscured by the edges of his visor. Tommy tore his eyes away to run his gaze up and down the portal frame, as if he hadn't already burned the image into his retinas as it was. Even so, he noticed immediately when Techno pushed himself a bit farther, knelt down with a quiet _clang_ and rummaged around in his pocket. A flint and steel appeared in his hands, unused until now. Techno reached out and held his hands near the bottom-right corner, assumedly gauging the position of where the sparks would land. 

_One,_ Tommy counted as Techno raised and lowered the steel; 

_One, two…_

_Three._

There was a pulsing _boom_ that was just similar enough to before to make Tommy's body stiffen like a petrified tree. A sound that shook the earth beneath their feet, pushed them back with the force of its magic, and Tommy sucked in a breath that tasted impossibly of...— _ash, fire, oh god the air was near black with it —!_

"Tommy. Tommy, look at me." 

He blinked. Techno's hands were on his shoulders, and the pig-man was backlit by something that abruptly broke the illusion of red and black, shattered it like glass. Techno's grip eased a bit, and Tommy realized that he might have been talking beforehand. 

The entire mineshaft was purple now, undeniably littered with it. Purple, not red. Purple, as Technoblade backed up enough for Tommy to see the shock of pink beneath his helmet.

 _Purple_ _and pink._ Not red. Not anymore. 

Tommy exhaled, unclenched his fists slowly like he was pulling teeth. His lungs ached, but he tasted no ash when he swallowed, and that needed to be enough. 

"I'm okay," he said, more breathless than he wanted, "I'm alright, big man. I wasn't expecting—" 

"The sound," Techno finished for him, expression taut with an emotion that Tommy couldn't quite bring himself to decipher. Tommy's lips pulled into an uneasy smile. 

"Yeah. But I'm alright now. I'm fine." 

Techno released him, but only after a moment — only after the precise moment where Tommy's heartbeat began to settle from it's rabbit-pace. 

Nether portals, for all the dangers they possessed within their depths, were admittedly beautiful. By definition, they were one of the most intensely _magical_ things someone could create — a pulsating, glowing light that bathed any room they were present in a cooling purple wave. The edges of a properly constructed one would knit themselves together by the will of the magic, shine the jagged pieces until it seemed like it had never been in any other form at all, and to their credit — and Tommy's relief — their portal had done just that, mending the corners and shining the surface until it looked like an ever-present monument. 

Techno shifted beside him, the sound of netherite meeting netherite echoing in the air as he adjusted his helmet. That snapped Tommy back to the true reality of the situation; right back to what was about to happen. Where the portal led. 

Tommy swallowed. His throat felt oddly dry. 

"... Well," he said hesitantly, "good luck in there, big man. Don't get — er. Don't get lost, huh?" 

His weak attempt at a joke felt flat even to him, but Techno indulged him in the way that he always did. He snorted, flicked a bit of his pink hair from his eyes. 

"I won't," Techno said with a touch of unexpected seriousness, even as he leant into the joke, knocked on his helmet with an approximation of a wry smile; "human GPS, remember? I'll be fine." 

The mental image was almost funny. Techno, knelt in a world made of fire and ash, focused on the non-existent footprints of animals and the burning hot breeze. 

Almost.

"..."

"..."

Tommy waited, and he waited. What for, he didn't really know. He wasn't sure if Techno did either, because the man seemed almost like a statue as he stared back, eyes locked on the space between Tommy and the portal like it would open up another one. But eventually, Technoblade moved. He took a step toward the pulsating purple, the light nearly blinding as it melded with the shimmering enchantments. 

They stood there, frozen, for a long time. The whirring of the portal filled the empty space in the way only white noise ever could. 

"... I'll be back soon." Techno adjusted the strap of his bag, pulled on the edges of his cloak's collar. Tommy nodded. It felt a bit like slogging through sand. 

"I know." 

(Despite everything, strangely enough? He meant it. It didn’t make it any easier, but he meant it.)

Technoblade stepped through, pushed himself into the light. And then he was gone, and Tommy was left alone with the pulsing of the portal and a chest that felt like it was filled with lead. 

+

Tommy was left on autopilot. That was really the only way he could explain it, if he was asked. He felt like the ground was predestined to give way beneath his feet, and yet he kept moving. Kept walking in the way only a dream version of someone could, wrapped up in REM sleep and unable to comprehend why the world around them was warped slightly to the left, twisted into knots and supplying incomprehensible scribbles in place of words. 

He pulled himself up the stairs and set his tools aside. He dug around in a chest for the abandoned remnants of yet another batch of arrows — _Technoblade would need more, he'd need more when he came back with a depleted supply_ — and wove the string around the arrowheads, pinned the feathers on the ends. He'd gotten the process down to a near art form, sitting side by side with Techno whilst a fire crackled before their eyes. The vision of it blurred between his eyes, almost brought a haze of something that battled against the numbed wave. He was alone in the cave, and it was morning. He was with Technoblade, and it was night. 

He sat and he wove together his arrows, and he felt nothing at all. He lived in the buzzing, sunk into it with a depth that he hadn't anticipated. It was strange, how the silence changed when there was nobody there to fill it. Nobody there who made the active choice to leave it be — nobody there to make the silent agreement; _we are alone together,_ with. But if he ignored it, the feeling almost faded, drifted off into inaudible murmurs. He sat and he sunk, and a part of him wanted to scream just to fill the space, and _that_ urge hadn't been around for a very long time. It hadn't been necessary. 

And then...

"Shit." 

He spoke without meaning to as he slipped, missed the tip of the arrow and nearly grazed his arm with the sharp edge. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, and when he blinked he startled himself, stared at the arrows that littered the crafting table and had long since spilled onto the floor. His hands stuttered and dropped the stick he'd been holding, and his eyes roved over the slew of arrows like they were a conscious wave that had appeared from the void. He stumbled, knocked over the chair he'd been sitting in as he pressed his back against the wall, eyes wide. There had to be at least two stacks of them, _when had he made that many?_

His stomach rumbled with an ache that felt more like a pit, and he realized with a start that he hadn't eaten since breakfast. When he glanced out to the sky, the sun was high. Afternoon, maybe. Techno had left when the sun was only beginning to crest over the horizon, wanting to minimize the time he needed to spend in the nether. How long had Tommy been working on nothing? The feeling of numbness suddenly felt daunting, terrifying as he dredged up memories of the start. Of the blindingly suffocating silence, of how it was only ever warded away by Technoblade's concerned expressions that were pressed into warm food and cool water, or a heavy hand on his shoulder to drag him back to reality.

He'd gotten too close. 

_Fuck,_ Tommy thought with a startling, painful amount of clarity as he wiped his shaking palms on his pants; _He had to feed Schlatt._

+

It went without saying that Tommy hadn't been down to their… dungeon? In ages. He'd avoided it like the fucking plague, and for what he thought was a decently good reason. Even now, months later, he still wasn't sure if he'd made the right choice. Hell, he was half sure he hadn't, more than that even whenever he shot up from his bed with his chest rising and falling like it was tumbled by a hurricane, haunted still by eyes of sharp gold and manic brown alike. 

(Sometimes it was more than that. On the worst days, the eyes were a too-forgiving mixture of green and blue, and it almost made him wish for the terror instead.) 

The door almost seemed to mock him in it's harmlessness, now. It was silent and looming and Tommy had no fucking reason to feel like he was going to lose his grip on the bottle he held, but here he was, grip nearly enough to crush the potato in his off-hand. He shoved both in his bag with a ferocity that they didn't really warrant, and squeezed his eyes shut. It felt like that was becoming yet another habit. 

When Tommy opened his eyes again, it was with the dredges of old determination that he dragged up from the depths of his chest. He could make it quick. It didn't matter whether or not Schlatt spoke to him, whether or not he saw the ghost of a villain that he remembered in the cage. It wasn't about Schlatt anymore, the man didn't have any fucking power. It was the principle of the thing, it was him sticking to a choice that he'd already made. He'd set it down and bolt and it didn't matter what Schlatt thought of him. It didn't matter what he said, because Tommy didn't give a damn.

He didn't. _He didn't._

_(God, why couldn't he be a better liar?)_

Dryly, he wondered if it would help to put a sarcastic sign over the doorway. Something sardonic, like Wilbur would have. 

_Abandon all hope,_ Tommy thought faintly with an echo of humor he didn't quite feel; _Abandon all hope, ye who enter here._ It didn't make him laugh, but he knew Techno would appreciate it. 

He wasn't sure when he reached for the doorknob, but he sure as hell knew when he opened it. 

Tommy stared down into the abyss below, lit a torch, and carefully smothered the idea that he couldn't stop repeating past mistakes that actually mattered. 

+

The dungeon — and god, he needed a better name for it — was different from the way he remembered it. 

It almost seemed wider, like the path had been mercifully expanded to give a bit more breathing room, and the torches seemed like they were placed a bit closer together. He hadn't thought Techno had changed a thing about it in his many daily trips, and he certainly hadn't _heard_ anything to the contrary. But the tunnel was undeniably larger when he pressed his hand to the walls, more spacious and better lit than it used to be. It helped ease some of the pressure that threatened to crush him, but he was somewhat eager to break from the tunnels and into a proper room again, even though that feeling was quickly smothered by the reminder of what _exactly_ it was he was approaching.

Even with the visual changes, Tommy had to admit that it would still be easy to feel like you'd gotten lost even with only one path to follow, which was probably the point. Tommy counted the edges of each rock as he walked, wondered to himself if the tunnels had always been this long. Maybe it was just because he was dragging his feet, quietly unwilling to complete a journey he knew shouldn't have made him feel so sick. Somewhere along the line he'd discarded his torch, but he had to strike up another when he reached the end of the lit hall, where it opened to a darker cavern. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. It didn't matter.

"Took you long enough," came a voice. It should have been familiar, but it wasn't, and Tommy didn't know what the hell to do with that. 

Whatever had been left of Tommy's stupor snapped like shards of glass for the second time as he stepped into the open room, squinting at the bright light that encompassed Schlatt's cell. It was near blinding compared to the rest of the room, and Schlatt was standing in the middle of it like some kind of movie psych ward victim, complete with his hands wrapped around the bars. But that, although strange, was not the difference that had shattered the ground Tommy stood upon. 

He felt the moment yellow eyes locked onto him, onto the light of the flickering torch, and it was different again. It was anything but the piercing stares, but the laughter, and that was exactly what Tommy had (hadn't?) Wanted to avoid. The ram-horned man looked as disheveled as he had prior, a bit paler than he had been before. He'd kept his rolled sleeves up to his elbows, but the dress shirt looked considerably more wrinkled now, crevices so deeply pressed into the fabric that Tommy wondered if he ever took it off. Techno had brought water down before for Schlatt to bathe, but the shirt looked the same. 

_(Not,_ Tommy's brain supplied with a hint of traitorous hatred, _like Tommy was any better._ The sleeves of his old white shirt were long since stained, the red of his collar long since faded by the sun.)

On top of that Schlatt spoke _softly_ — no. Softly was the wrong word. Nothing about Schlatt was soft, even now, but he was undeniably off, stilted in a manner that Tommy couldn't quite describe. He was painfully _off_ as he called out into what Tommy could only assume was blackness, and Tommy felt the hints of something he recognized undercutting the words. Something that threatened to consume him every time he lingered too long on unpleasant memories, and _oh god, no._ He was not going to commiserate with Schlatt. It wasn't the same. 

Tommy stepped a little closer, and Schlatt's yellow eyes widened near imperceptibly. 

"Oh. Well isn't this a surprise," Schlatt said, and although his tone hardened as he went, it was still almost a drawl as he pushed himself off the bars.

"Tommyinnit, in the flesh. And here I thought I'd be left down here to rot, with only the fuckin' dust bunnies and Technoblade for company." The familiar grin Schlatt pasted on somehow looked like condensed rust, and Tommy had to physically force himself to breathe. 

"Shut the fuck up," Tommy snapped back. Somehow it didn't feel as venomous as he'd wanted. _Maybe they both didn't feel up to it,_ he wondered, a bit hysterically. He clawed at the edges of his old anger and tried to spark it to life, but it refused to ignite. It was like it'd been drenched in water, buried deep in a flurry of sand. 

(Neither of them mentioned the ties. Tommy didn't even look at them, laid out in perfect lines across the edge of Schlatt's headboard.)

"Welp, I'm starved," Schlatt chirped, popped the 'p' after another silence that dragged on too long, clapping his hands with an echo of old grandeur that tasted like dust; "let me guess — potatoes? What, did Techno get tired of talking to me so he sent his errand boy instead?" 

_So he doesn't know,_ Tommy wondered to himself. That made sense. Techno probably wouldn't want Schlatt to know they were alone. 

Still, Tommy didn't dignify that with a response as he walked all the way up to the cell's iron bars. There was a hooked mechanism he recognized as a sconce pinned to the far wall, and he slid the torch he'd been holding into it, brow furrowed. Techno really had changed a lot of things about the underground. With both hands free, he could dig into his bag with additional zeal, brow twitching as Schlatt spoke again, tapping a knuckle against the bars. Tommy turned his back, set the bag on the floor with a heavy thump as he tried to ignore the sounds behind him. 

"Knock knock, anyone in there? Come on Tommy, don't leave me hanging here. Even Technoblade talks more than this. I'm not exactly a one man show." He paused, expression growing falsely contemplative. The smile returned, accompanied by a chuckle. Tommy's lungs ached. "Actually no. Maybe I am." 

"Maybe you wouldn't be if you knew how to Shut. The. Fuck. Up." 

Tommy's voice was a gritted mumble, punctuated by the manner in which he shoved items in his bag aside. Eventually he emerged with a potato, still warm in his hands, and a bottle of chilled water. From the corner of his eye he watched as Schlatt stuffed his hands into the pockets of his slacks and rolled back on the balls of his feet, tapped the edge of dulled shoes against the stone floor. He could hear the _fine, no words then_ in the air, and he didn't know why it burned like it was fucking wrong. He didn't know why it dripped with falsehood when it was the only thing that should have made sense. 

Why did it feel like a character?

_("I found bees in the office, once." A sentence murmured to open air, a painfully short pause.)_

_Tap._

_Tap tap._

_Tap._

_Tap tap._

Tommy gritted his teeth. God, he wanted to get out of here, but he couldn't get his body to move any faster. He couldn't convince himself he was any safer upstairs, and wasn't that just fucking ridiculous? 

_Tap tap tap._

"Schlatt..." His voice was a strangled echo, nearly inaudible even to himself. Schlatt completely ignored him. The tapping was in time with the pounding of his heart, and he needed it to _fucking stop._

_Tap._

_Tap tap tap._

"Schlatt!" Tommy's shaking grip around the glass bottle tightened til it creaked. It was too much. Why had he thought he could do this? Why had he convinced Techno he could do this? 

_Tap._

_Tap tap._

_Tap tap tap._

Tommy whirled. 

"Schlatt, _please!"_ He wasn't yelling. He wanted to yell. To assert his stability, to yank it out from under Schlatt's feet. But he didn't yell. It stuck and died in his throat until it was only a sentence. Only a word. 

He pleaded, fucking _pleaded,_ and the ram froze even as the words burned the back of Tommy's throat. It was kind of strange, really, how instantaneous the shift was. How the man caged looked like he'd been put on pause, frozen in time right before his worn out heel could meet the floor again. 

Yellow met blue. The sun met the storm, and the ocean finally stilled. 

"..." 

"Schlatt," Tommy repeated, unable to stop himself as his voice wobbled, weighed down by an exhaustion he couldn't fight; "just… shut up."

Tommy didn't know why he thought even for a moment, that it would work. Didn't even know why it had been an option _._ He knew — _thought he knew?_ — what Schlatt did to moments of weakness. He didn't know why he even considered it. Why his mouth moved on it's own, spitting out words he wanted to smother a moment too late.

He didn't know why Schlatt set his feet back on the ground with an expression that melted away the mask. Why he looked at Tommy with suddenly blank eyes, lips tugged to a flat line as the silence stretched between them like a tangible void. He still didn't look like the monster Tommy remembered. He hadn't even looked like that in the dreams recently, and that had been the worst part of all. 

_("Quackity laughed, the idiot." Schlatt looked strange, propped up against the wall with streaks of color hanging like vines from his fingertips.)_

"..."

"Just take your fucking food," Tommy said. 

He shoved it through an opening Techno must have carved, pulled his arms back with a speed he didn't have the energy to maintain. He pushed himself back until he hit the wall, a shock of cold forcing him back to awareness. 

Schlatt stared at him for another moment. Another second. Another year. 

And then he turned. He reached for the food, reached for the bottle. He drained the latter first, flicked open the cork and chugged it down with more speed than Tommy thought the man possessed. Schlatt set it back on the ledge after a long moment, and gold no longer lifted to meet blue. 

"Get the hell out of here," Schlatt said, almost dismissive, "I don't need a stupid kid watching me eat a potato. I'm not gonna choke myself to death." 

Tommy eyed the bottle. 

_He had to be ready,_ a voice whispered, _Schlatt could try and shatter it, use it as some kind of weapon._ He didn't believe it for a second, even though he should have. He didn't know how to feel about that, even though he should have. Tommy snatched the glass bottle away, and Schlatt didn't even blink. 

The ram turned away from him this time, shifted on his heels and plopped back onto his bed. He pointedly ignored Tommy as he sunk his teeth into the potato, expression blasé. His mind whirled as he wondered why Schlatt — _Schlatt —_ would ever give him an out, much less such an obvious one. He scanned for an angle, for a deception, for anything that would make it fit back into the box. Had he forgotten something? An unpredictable weapon, something that could be twisted into a key the moment he left? What could he have forgotten?

_("Seemed like everyone was proud of him." A sentence. An image. A whisper of a life he'd denied even imagining, mumbled between iron bars and the ache of old friends.)_

Tommy came up empty. And he didn't know how to feel about that either. 

After a long moment, Tommy reached for the torch and pulled it from the sconce. When he fled — and he _did_ flee — he wondered if he was imagining the eyes he felt burn into his back. 

\-----

+

\-----

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed Summary:  
> Technoblade and Tommy work together to build the nether portal, which Techno then sets off into with the hopes of bringing back more supplies. Tommy, left alone for the first time in months, deals with the kickback of his own silence, and brings a meal to Schlatt for the first time. 
> 
> Until next time, my friends!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy tries to get through the first day in peace. Like everything else, it goes wrong. 
> 
> Unlike everything else, however, it doesn't go COMPLETELY wrong. 
> 
> Or
> 
> Tommy makes progress on his first day alone, and comes to a somewhat uncomfortable realization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ahem* 
> 
> New chapter pog? 50,000 WORDS POG???
> 
> Reused joke aside, hurrah for more content my friends! This chapter took a little bit of editing, but I eventually managed to switch enough around that I ended up with something satisfactory, and I sincerely hope you enjoy it.
> 
> A few notes before we begin, because I have a couple things to discuss. (None of which are negative, just by the by. Nothing to be concerned about here.) 
> 
> I've gotten a few more people talking about fanart, which I addressed in the last chapter, but I want to put it here too just in case. I absolutely, ENTHUSIASTICALLY endorse fanart. The fact that multiple people have brought up the subject at all is absolutely mind-blowing to me, and I can only hope the narrative I weave in exchange is worthy. I only ask that you let me know so I can find it, and then subsequently die over it for the next thousand years. 
> 
> That being said, I appreciate any and all of the wonderful support I've received on this story, whether it be comments, kudos, or critisism! I'm always looking for a way to improve my work, and I'm thrilled so many people seem to enjoy it. (We hit 700 kudos last chapter, which... Good lord. That's so many people, I can't even fathom it.) 
> 
> Thank you. Sincerely, thank you. 
> 
> And as always my dear readers, comments, kudos, and feedback of any kind feeds my writing-fatigued (but joyful) soul. Please enjoy.

* * *

_"Tommy."_

_Wilbur was looking at him. Tommy knew he was looking at him — he almost always seemed to be lately, paranoid and anxious and so, so fragile. He swallowed hard around the dry lump of his throat and carefully did not raise his head, poking instead at the embers of the fire they'd set up, roasting the meager fish that Tommy had managed to catch with his hands from the river._

_"Yes?"_

_A moment. A long pause. Long enough to make Tommy think Wilbur had just said his name to say it._

_And then;_

_"... I'm sorry, Tommy." A tone so familiar, so grounded, that it physically ached._

_Tommy's hand froze, tightening around the stick he'd been holding with traitorous hope bleeding into his veins. Slowly, he looked up._

_Wilbur sat opposite to him, elbows resting unsteadily on his knees. He'd threaded his gloved fingers together, pressing them against his forehead as he stared into the flickering flames. His brow was deeply furrowed, a perfect painful addition to the dark bags beneath his eyes, the long unkempt mess of his hair stuffed beneath an old beanie. Wilbur was a wreck, he had been ever since he shed his old L'Manburg uniform in a haze of hatred gilded with a smile. But for the first time since then, his brown eyes looked painfully clear, agonizingly familiar. Amber, instead of the midnight black of mania._

_"Sorry? What for?" Tommy's voice sounded faint, like he'd been muffled by cloth. Wilbur dropped his head, hid his face in his hands as he took a shuddering breath._

_"For everything. For putting you through any of this. All of this."_

_Wilbur looked up at him properly. He held out a pale, fingerless-gloved hand, and Tommy reached out to take it. His vision blurred a bit, softened the image as he sucked in an unsteady breath of his own — agony borne of relief._

_Wilbur. President_ _Wilbur, mild-mannered and determined before the face of a masked dictator. The Wilbur Tommy remembered blinked back at him, reached out and pulled him into a steady hug as he began to sob. Both of them trembled, and it had nothing to do with the chill._

_"I'm so sorry, Tommy," he choked into Tommy's shoulder._

_It's okay, Tommy wanted to whisper back, it's okay. But he didn't. Because he and Wilbur — this Wilbur, not the man who'd stolen his face — had promised a long time ago not to lie to one another. Had promised that it was them against the world. So instead he just clung tighter, pulled him closer, and cried tears of relief._

_(He'd been too hasty. But then again, that was a habit he never seemed to be able to break.)_

\-----

_+_

\-----

Tommy wasn't sure when he'd started running. By the time he realized it he was nearly halfway to the surface, heaving for breath he didn't have.

He burst from the underground and threw the torch with all the energy he could muster, a fit of almost-rage that left him shaking. The door slammed behind him and he didn't even flinch, sinking back against it's closed surface with a ragged gasp. The torch he held went flying, skidded twice on the floor before rolling to a stop against the opposite wall. It valiantly flickered twice before it eventually extinguished. 

When he cracked open his eyes again the lights seemed a little less bright, but the beginnings of a headache had unfortunately evolved into actual pain. There wasn't much he could do about that short of drinking one of his few healing potions, and he would rather save that for if the worst came to pass. 

_Not that it would matter,_ he reminded himself weakly, _they would have more than enough soon. He just had to ration them for now._

He stumbled over on unbalanced legs to the chest, mouth unnaturally dry as he rustled around for another bottle of water. The empty one he already had was thrown to the side of the chest, somehow not breaking as he tossed it aside. 

When his grip closed around what he sought he chugged it immediately, the near ice-cold chill of water almost like throwing a bucket over his head. It nearly stung, and it was the only thing that refreshed any part of his body. He emptied it, wiping messily at his face as he searched for a potato. 

He realized with a start that Techno had left food for him, organized in portions pressed in even rows near the back of the chest. They weren't warm anymore, but it didn't matter, and Tommy wasn't about to wait to heat them. He bit into one with as much of his nervous energy as he could compress — he wasn't sure how much longer he'd have it. It tasted like concrete paste in his mouth but it went down easy, and that was really all he could ask for with the simmering, near painful pressure in his chest. By the time he was done choking it down, the hateful shaking of his hands had finally subsided somewhat, and he was able to stand upright without threat of tumbling to the ground. 

He rubbed hard at his face, pressing his bandaged palms against his face and running them through his hair. He was sweaty, although it was kind of difficult to tell if that was because of his clammy hands or not. He exhaled after a moment, sweeping his gaze over the cave with a wince. Arrows still littered the floor around the crafting table, and the ash from the torch had smeared the stone it passed with streaks of black charcoal, like someone had taken a particularly messy crayon to the surface. 

_Less than a day, and the cave was already a wreck?_ A too familiar whisper tsked, dry and sarcastic in the way only the hateful truly could be, _how disappointed would Technoblade be if he saw it like this?_

Tommy gritted his teeth. He couldn't let this keep happening. Techno had trusted him damn it, he wasn't about to fall apart when Techno already had so much on his shoulders. He was only even _in_ the nether because of Tommy, and he had only gone because Tommy promised he could handle it. He could. He would, because he didn't have a choice. He would not let himself fall apart when things were already so delicate, when things had finally been looking up again. 

He clenched his hands together and tried to pull a bit of calm from the remnants of their shared space, as if he could gather it by osmosis. When that obviously didn't work, he pushed out a long, slow breath. 

_Okay,_ he thought firmly, pulling his feet apart and setting his shoulders back in the way Technoblade had always done, seeking balance. 

Everything was easier with concrete goals — simple posts that would mark inches of progress. It was what had gotten him through the first days — weeks, months — without falling back to catatonia. Well. That and Techno, but he only had access to one of the two. He tried first to reach for authority, for surety to mimic his own commands, but it sounded far too manic and far too familiar, so he scrapped it recklessly and tried instead for calm. 

_First step, cleanin' up the arrows._

Better. That was better. 

For better or for worse, Tommy spent at least half of the afternoon cleaning up the mess he'd managed to make. To his genuine surprise, the arrows he'd made in his flurry of lost attention seemed pretty sturdy when he glanced at them, although he'd likely have to examine them up close to actually check for stability. They couldn't risk an arrow being too weak to be fired — at best that would impact accuracy, at worst it could splinter and injure the user — at least, that was what Techno had always said. 

Tommy plucked them up in handfuls, almost akin to bushels of particularly dangerous wheat. He reached for a few errant strands of spider's silk between bundles, wrapped it around the middle, and set the bunches in even rows atop the crafting table to be actually organized later. By the time he'd finished, the surface of it was nearly completely covered edge to edge in collected arrows. It was a messier job than what Techno would have done, but Tommy felt a little better now that he could walk around without worry of snapping flint and wood beneath his worn out shoes. 

He exhaled, ran his hands through his hair, and tried to think about what else he could do, what else he could use to fight off the quiet buzz of static behind his ears. 

The smear of black from a thrown torch remained on the floor when he opened them, and his eyes caught on the edge of a bucket, leant beside the furnace. 

+

The worst thing about bandaged hands, in Tommy's opinion anyway, was getting them wet. The squish of soaked fabric against skin was never pleasant, felt a bit too similar to catching stray seaweed whilst diving into the ocean. 

It wasn't so bad after a long training session — more refreshing than anything — but if it was unintentional, or the bandages were new, soaking them in water made them useless, labeled them as wasted. And even if they weren't running low on bandages or the materials they'd need to make more, something felt intrinsically wrong with wasting much of anything. Tommy had spent what felt like forever with Wilbur after the elections, after their banishment. They'd lived day to day in a different manner than he and Techno did — back then, paranoia scorched the edges of every step, dragged them further and further down into the depths of a lake whenever they dared go fishing. It had been a game of luck and danger then, and Tommy had hated it. 

It wasn't fair. It wasn't, and it made it worse that there was nothing they could have done. He'd thought there was, once, but…

...

He shook the ghosts of his memories away as water splashed at his heels, and Tommy's lips pulled into a deep frown when it soaked into the bandages on his palms, drenching the woven bandages as he pulled the bucket up from the river. Anywhere the water touched felt like ice, chilled by the breeze that grew colder still every passing day. Techno had commented on it once, mentioned that winter was approaching with more speed than they'd anticipated. That had been a hell of a surprise to Tommy — _hadn't it just been summer? —_ who'd only been wondering why the fish were steadily growing less and less common. It was only the memory of that conversation that kept him from trying to fish last minute; it was getting too dark to justify the risk. 

He'd rolled up his sleeves a bit past his elbows for the task at hand though, and lugging the bucket around was a little easier than it had been before. He hardly spilled any of it, even as he dragged it back up the short incline. 

By the time he'd managed to clean up the mess of scattered arrows he'd made, the sun had sunk a bit farther into the sky, drawing out the edges of orange that swallowed up a sunset. It took him a little bit longer still to gather up the nerve to actually move out, even if it was a relatively short walk. The sky was riddled with shades of yellow, orange, and pink now, and it cast a warm fuzzy glow over the land until it all looked like it'd been filtered through a slightly scratched up lens. Even the water had turned a shade of near purple, shimmering under specks of flickering gold as his steps struck ripples through the lazy flow. 

However, as beautiful as it was, Tommy knew that dark meant mobs — and mobs meant a fight. He hadn't even brought any real armor with him, save for an iron chestplate that he'd thrown on last minute. It had been the most he could manage through a threatened haze that had only really gone away with the shock of cold river water. So he focused instead on making his stride a bit quicker as he pushed through the woods. His pant legs were uncomfortably soaked through, squelching a bit with every step. He wasn't able to quite get them rolled up high enough before he waded into the stream, and he grimaced a little with the breeze. At least the trees provided cover from the wind. 

The forest that laid between their base and the river was rather tall, all things considered. Tall enough to block out most of the setting sun, leaving only a soft glow to the area and sparse echoes of the sky. When he looked directly upwards, he could even see the blue begin to darken, just a bit. 

A twig snapped, and with it snapped Tommy's borderline peaceful illusion. 

He didn't know what it was, of course. It could have been as simple as a passive mob, like a pig or a fox. But, just as easily, it could have been a skeleton or a zombie, concealed by the trees from even the last remaining remnants of light. It could be a spider, creeping across the branches, ruby red eyes glowing like the sun. It could be a creeper, blending in with the blurs of greens and blacks that encompassed the area. Mobs were usually deterred by the torches they'd set out, but as he stumbled, he wondered if it wouldn't hurt to make another fence. Something simple, wooden like the area Techno had sanctioned off for training. 

His thoughts were enough to urge him forward with new zeal, albeit for alternating reasons, and he shouldered aside a few branches as he ducked and speed-walked, hoping not to spill any more water. It sloshed around in the bucket, and he hissed when a little of it dribbled onto his leg. He had to be more careful tomorrow, — maybe do this at an earlier time. 

Thankfully though, the everlasting branches finally came to an abrupt end. He broke into the man-made clearing that surrounded their cave with a heaving breath of relief, shoulders physically relaxing when he caught a glimpse of the light, more distinct now that the sun had mostly set in earnest. From there it was easier, stumbling inside and setting the bucket by the furnace, shutting the door behind him with a careful kick. He peeled off the wet bandages from his hands with a bit of mild disgust, dropping the remains in the corner to dispose of tomorrow. Then he went to the chest, bending down to a knee as he flicked open the lock. 

Techno had gotten him in the habit of boiling the water before they drank it, freshwater or not, so he grabbed a few sizable lumps of coal for the furnace. He threw them in with practiced ease; it had been one of his easier jobs, all the way from the start, and the familiarity of it helped warm a part of him that wasn't only cold because of the temperature. 

Once the furnace was lit he set the bucket carefully on top, shifting it so it wouldn't bubble over unevenly. The warmth that came off the fire was comforting, and he hovered his hands in front of it for a moment. It was when he reached for a potato that he realized something incredibly important, something he was shocked he hadn't noticed immediately. 

_His hands weren't shaking._

He blinked in surprise, brow furrowed as he examined his open palms. They really weren't shaking. Perhaps it had been the work, the focus point it had given him. Perhaps it had been the sharp prick of the chill against his now exposed skin, grounding and clear like inhaling a mouthful of mint, or like the pressure of Techno's cloak around his shoulders. He didn't know. Another moment passed, quiet and contemplative, before he set his potato in the furnace. 

As he sat there, back pressed to the wall and knees pulled up to his chest, Tommy wondered if Technoblade would be proud of him. He hoped so. 

(Quietly, the wounded remains of a younger Tommy wondered if Wilbur would be too. He banished that thought before it could find a home in his chest.) 

He stared at his hands for a long time as the water boiled. He wasn't sure if he thought of anything else at all. 

+

_("Tommy," Wilbur grumbled, incredulous, irritated, and maybe reluctantly a little impressed; "why can't you ever be this productive when it's about anything else?"_

_Wilbur ran his hands over the pile of ores Tommy had deposited into their shared chest and Tommy laughed, threw back his head and shrugged as he leant against the wall. He was absolutely not being childish._

_"I'm just that good," he hummed cheerily, "not my fault that what you want is so boring, big man."_

_"Gathering food is not_ boring _Tommy, it's vital to our survival!"_

_"You're talking like we can't just bug Dream for food until he caves," Tommy snorted, a bit too smug. Wilbur groaned into his hands exaggeratedly, but Tommy could see the smile that threatened to break the surface. Dream, for all his jokes and jabs, almost always gave in when Tommy needed his help.)_

+

Tommy was procrastinating. 

A detached part of him knew he was procrastinating as he pulled the boiling water off the fire, and that same part of him knew he was procrastinating when he waited nearly half an hour for it to cool before he even began to fill up the bottles themselves. He knew he was procrastinating when he organized them, then organized them again, before he finally set them into rows against the stone to chill. 

He knew he was procrastinating as he moved immediately onto squinting at the edges of an arrowhead, examining the straightness of the sticks. The knowledge of it couldn't bite at him the way the anxiousness or numbed buzzing did, but it made it a little harder to breathe even as he tried to ignore it. It seemed like a lot of things were determined to do that, tighten up his chest and pull at his comfort like an old sweater. 

It wasn't like he was being entirely unproductive. Whilst studying the sets, he'd found plenty of arrows with sizable cracks in the grain of the wood, perfect lines to split and splinter amidst like a deadly jigsaw puzzle. Those arrows were carefully taken apart and set aside, the arrowheads, feathers, and string all for new batches, whilst the wood was delegated to kindling. But he could find all the faulty arrows he wanted, and he knew damn well it wouldn't make the nagging feeling of dread recceed. 

Because he needed to feed Schlatt again. And he really, _really_ wasn't looking forward to that. 

His last encounters with the man had been too strange, settled too oddly even considering the breadth of whatever the hell else his life had become over the past few… months? Weeks? He didn't know. Time and keeping it had at some point become the job of Technoblade alone; something that had happened more than Tommy had truly understood. 

Either way it didn't matter. The point was, interacting with Schlatt was one of the last things he wanted to do, and it was one of the few things he knew would become essential. It had been _his_ idea to keep Schlatt alive, and he couldn't just let him starve. Not with the biting agony of suspension hanging in the air, not with the gaping wound that refused closure. Killing the man in the cell should have been a prospect of temptation, but it wasn't. If anything it made him feel slightly ill. 

It wasn't because he liked him. Fuck, even now he felt a surge of old pain whenever he thought of the day they lost it all, the day they'd been too cocky and too self-assured to realize that the carpet they'd sewn had been ripped away from beneath their feet. But the man that stood inside that cell didn't match up to the silhouette of keratin and sadistic laughter. He looked like a stranger, mussed and dirty, sallow like the dictator never had been before. The remnants of whatever anger he'd always felt when he saw the ram-horned man refused to rise, like it knew it was some kind of imposter in Schlatt's old skin. It was unsettling, and it was enough to make Tommy wish more for avoidance than conflict. Whatever victory he would have derived from clashing with a defenseless prisoner felt like rotting fruit, soft underneath the gilded edges that promised false peace in familiar tones, hidden in the folds of billowing trench-coats and outstretched hands. 

Tommy had enough false peace to last him a lifetime. More, even. He didn't want to take on additional loads like it wouldn't make his knees creak, like it didn't press down with agonizing apathy in his chest until he finally couldn't take in air anymore. 

He exhaled slowly, just to prove to himself that he could, and set down the arrow he'd been twirling in his fingers. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he knew it had been too long to pretend he was still focused on his aimless task. Tommy pressed his lips into a fine line, jaw tense. His eyes were ever so slowly drawn to the furnace, where yet another potato laid atop it, beside the now empty bucket. He shut his eyes and folded his fingers together, still bare. He hadn't gotten around to wrapping them up again yet. 

_He could do this. He had to._

Technoblade trusted him to take care of things while he was gone. Tommy refused to let him down, to crumble to fucking dust when he'd finally been able to pull his head out of the water. His hands clenched to fists and he only just managed to keep himself from slamming his hand into the table, only just managed to force himself to take another breath. 

He forced the imaginary energy into a box, set it into a generator only he could see, and bit his lip so hard he swore it bled. 

+

When he finally gathered up the nerve to venture down for the third — fourth technically, but the first one didn't count — time, he approached it with steady eyes and one hand shoved in his jean pocket. He reached for a pre-set torch this time, plucked it right off the wall sconce and ventured down with it in his hands. At some level it brought him a bit of comfort — it was a torch Techno had set, somehow more resilient and far harder than ordinary torches to extinguish. Tommy had no clue how the man managed it, but the consistent light of the flickering flame was enough to soothe some of the chill, and he squeezed his hand around it just to remind himself it was there. 

He promised himself that he would put it back on the way up, an incentive not to chuck the damn thing like it would melt into his hand and leave a vicious burn. By all means, Tommy had every intention to do what he had last time, if not even quicker. Get in, shove the food through the slot, and bolt as soon as Schlatt drained his bottle. It was a simple plan, and a part of him was absolutely fucking positive that Schlatt would derail it into hell. He wasn't ready for it, but he expected it, and that had to make it easier, right? 

_Right._

So that's why he was surprised, what felt like mere moments later, as he stood in the middle of the silent room. And the room _was_ silent. So silent that he swore he could hear the impossible drip of water against stone, like they were in a cave system instead of a man-made tunnel. Schlatt leaned against the wall of his cell, adjacent to his bed with half a potato in his hands. His expression was flat, unimpressed even, as he arched an eyebrow. He flicked his chin a bit toward the slot, toward the small table where an emptied bottle laid, speech slightly muffled as he spoke through a mouthful. 

"Are you just going to stand there like some slack-jawed idiot? Take it and go, for fucks sake." 

If Tommy was going to call this trip anything it would be unequivocally anticlimactic. Somehow, that was equally unsettling. 

"That's it?" 

He blurted it aloud incredulously without meaning to, and the instant the words left his lips he clamped his mouth shut. He shouldn't have said anything, he should have just taken the out and left, but he was bolted in place by the weight of his own incomprehensible confusion. Schlatt rolled his shoulder in it's socket, swallowed, and shrugged. 

"Uh, yeah," he snorted, "what, did you want, a welcome committee? Sorry bud, fresh out of enthusiasm." Schlatt shot him a grin that was all teeth as he sarcastically waved one hand, but Tommy barely saw it. Barely registered it in his vision for more than half a second, thoughts whirling like a hurricane. The snark was… something, wasn't it? Something that made sense? 

_No,_ he admitted reluctantly, _no, it wasn't._ Nothing about this was fucking normal, not on any level. Not with the prior visits, not with the nightmares. No part of whatever Schlatt was trying to pull clicked with anything Tommy knew at all, and it triggered all sorts of muffled alarms.

It didn't make sense. There was no angle that Tommy could logically draw; there was no benefit to whatever Schlatt had done. As far as Tommy could see, the man hadn't even moved any of his sparse furniture, nor the placement of the torches on the walls. And whilst the latter may have been Techno's doing — he could easily imagine the pig-man having something in place to prevent Schlatt having access to fire — it didn't even seem like he'd moved the bed. There were no paintings to hide compartments behind, there were no empty spaces that could have hidden glass shards. _So what the fuck was Schlatt doing?_

Schlatt looked back at him after another long pause, forcibly dragged Tommy from his thoughts with harrowing yellow eyes and a slightly deepened tug down of his lips. He took a particular aggressive bite and faintly, Tommy was half convinced he was doing it specifically so he'd be talking with his mouth full. 

"Seriously, are you just gonna stand there? Can you scram already?" Schlatt insisted as he threw out his free arm, gesturing blindly toward the darkness that led to the door. "I can't sleep with some beady-eyed kid staring me down. Jesus." 

Tommy tuned his muttering out with too much ease as he stepped forward. It went remarkably slowly, although he had no clue what it was that dragged his feet down like lead.

His eyes scanned the cell again and again with every new stride, searching for a crack or a misplaced object. That had to be it, didn't it? It had to be some kind of diversion, some kind of convoluted escape route carved from the oxygen in the air itself. What was out of place?

(Two ties were still laid out in perfect, straight rows across the wood of the headboard. Tommy's eyes skipped over them like a broken machine for the second time, a willful blindspot in his vision. He bleached it from his memory with a force that felt almost alien to him, and an effectiveness that was near terrifying.)

The ram-horned man's animal-like ears flicked a little in the open air, pressed down a bit flatter against his head. He looked at Tommy, then away, then back. It was almost like some kind of sick silent treatment, and Tommy wanted to feel indignant about Schlatt somehow finding a power-play in a situation where he was quite literally confined to a cell, but he couldn't. Because it didn't _feel_ like a power-play, and that was what confused him the most. Schlatt had to have an agenda, didn't he? It was what the man did, the entire purpose of his antagonistic existence. He always spoke in old riddles, amused himself with the distress of those around him and draped his horns in the gold of their shed ichor like the most demented of crowns, glittering in the way only a tyrant ever could. That was what Schlatt was, what he had been. 

Only, that description still didn't fit the man in the cell, and Tommy wasn't certain how much longer he'd intended on pretending it had. The evidence of it, of his mortality and fragility, was displayed in the hollows of his cheeks, still scruffed with unkempt facial hair. It was displayed in the thin white line that dragged across his neck, a remnant of the first day that Tommy had neglected to notice. He wondered vaguely if that had been him or Technoblade, and the fact that the thought was a reasonable one sent him down yet another winding train. 

Schlatt was undeniably human, and the evidence burned Tommy's skin as he bit yet again into food that Tommy could have _poisoned,_ for all the other man knew. If he had, Schlatt would be helpless to stop it. He had no armour, no potions or golden apples. No swords, no silver. He'd seen it before, of course he had. That had been a source of his turmoil, the differences that he refused to acknowledge, refused to accept. He'd note them, sure. But he'd crush them, try to disregard their presence as he searched for familiarity. 

He didn't find it. He hadn't found it. 

No, the monstrous description of Schlatt hadn't fit for a very long time. It hadn't, Tommy admitted to himself, on a single visit that he'd conducted. The absence of it was deafening, and whatever Schlatt was now, it was more like a ghost that solidified from minced memories — a collection of snippets that used to make up a whole, missing pieces like a broken puzzle — than a monster of a man. He felt no hint of the old smothering aura, heard no evidence of his silver tongue in the silence that stretched like fire over their heads. For the third time, Tommy felt like he was being manipulated — but how much of that was his own creation? How much power could Schlatt possibly have, chained up and essentially muzzled? 

As if proving the point, he didn't move as Tommy moved forward and snagged the bottle away, didn't protest or comment when he tucked it into his bag without breaking uncomfortable eye contact. Didn't even blink as Tommy backed up a step, tension clenched in the line of his jaw. He looked utterly impassive, if not a bit impatient, expression drawn so closely shut that it almost looked like his expression had been welded like steel. It was a strange dichotomy, the blasé tone and the crinkled mess of his shirt, still torn at the collar like it'd been yanked hard enough to tear the stitches. The near invasive nature of his gaze and the chipped edge of his broken horn. The easy posture and the steel of his grip, the sharp, near sallow features and the slightly pale pallor to his skin. 

Schlatt was nothing if not a contradiction. Tommy was beginning to think that was the only thing that still applied to him anymore. 

This time, when Tommy reached for the torch set in the sconce on what proved to be his shortest trip yet, his hands did not shake. Schlatt's gaze dropped away, focused on some point beyond him that Tommy couldn't see. When Tommy turned, he said nothing. When Tommy moved, he said nothing. 

When Tommy left the dungeon for the third time, he walked instead of running. He strode up the stairs slowly, one by one, not from dazed horror but from quiet, near uncomfortable contemplation. If he was honest, he wasn't certain which one was worse. 

He walked all the way to the top, and although his chest felt strangely heavy, he did not feel the too-familiar, crushing weight of panic. He left and he did not collapse, and he felt like the ground beneath his feet ought to crumble even as it echoed the strength of it's build. The paradoxical nature of it made his head spin.

When Tommy closed the dark oak door behind him, the wave of panic still did not arrive. He was able to sit down on his bed without feeling like he was about to vomit, and the strangeness of it felt a bit like an ill-fitting skin or a quiet open field in a horror story; too tight and nearly ominous with its tranquility. 

Of course, that wasn't to say he was energized. The work he'd completed weighed on him the way most days did — if not more — made his body feel heavy and near drugged as his eyes drifted slowly to the empty space, the empty bench that lacked it's usual occupant. The air was too open and too silent, shallow without the familiar even _shings_ of metal meeting metal to fill the space. Open space meant room for his thoughts. Open space meant a silence he couldn't deny, a conversation he no longer had the option to spark. Words and questions lined the tip of his tongue like liquid silver, but he bit them back. There was nobody who could answer him. 

The seat where Technoblade always rested — but never slept — was almost physically cold without the shock of vibrant pink to break up the grey space. But the floor was clean, the furnace was cared for, and he'd fed himself just fine. He'd gotten everything done, and it was almost enough to soothe him. Almost enough to quiet the contemplative crash as an invisible wall crumbled to dust behind his eyes, one that'd he'd been trying so desperately to uphold. And for what? 

Tommy didn't know. 

He didn't get a chance to figure it out before he dropped off fitfully to sleep. 

\-----

+

\-----

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try not to make the ending notes too long, because I know the pain of thinking you have more of a chapter to scroll through only to hit the notes section, haha. But I want to say it one more time; thank you all for your wonderful support. Reading your comments and seeing your theories genuinely makes my day, and I don't give a damn if that sounds cheesy, I embrace it. 
> 
> Thank you <3
> 
> Detailed Summary: 
> 
> After his first attempt at bringing Schlatt food, Tommy finds himself in turmoil. He attempts to clear his head by completing easier tasks, like cleaning up the mess of arrows and gathering more water. When he can, he ventures down to feed Schlatt again, only to find that the man is acting strange. This spurs him to accept what he'd known for a while; Schlatt was different. For better or for worse.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three days have passed, counting now, and Technoblade is still nowhere to be found. Tommy isn't sure how to deal with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update? In my story? It's far more likely than you'd think. 
> 
> I'm so so sorry, my dear readers. I know you've been waiting for quite a while now. I can't offer much in return aside from this chapter, so I sincerely hope that you enjoy it. I've been struggling a bit with a few personal health issues (NOT covid, please don't worry!) Which mixed rather poorly with writer's block, haha. But I finally managed to wrangle out about 6,000 words of plot. Thank you kindly for your support, and for your patience. I know how painful it can be to be left without an update. If I'm honest, I'm not satisfied with this chapter, so it may undergo some very major changes if my feelings on the matter stay the same, but I wanted to at least let everyone know that content is still being worked on. 
> 
> As one final side note: I want to thank everyone for the absolutely incredible fanart I've been receiving over the past week or so. I genuinely cannot believe that my fic inspires such wonderful art, and every time I see it it pushes me to work even harder, Technoblade style! I cannot even begin to thank you all enough, it always makes my day. 
> 
> As always, comments, kudos, criticism, and feedback of any kind feed my ever tired soul. Without further ado...
> 
> Please enjoy <3

* * *

_The song of the old, the song of the weary. Whispered between quiet aches, mumbled between grimaces and bitten tongues. Between bloodied bandages and the raw ache of loss, shaped in deals and cut in contracts that should never have come to pass._

_The song of the fallen, sung silently beneath the beats of an old anthem, as unfinished as the land it had once been dedicated to._

_That was the song of those trapped in the remnants of war._

\-----

+

\-----

_A million years ago, before discs and battles and more bloodshed than anyone could stand, a too-tall kid in a set of matching too-big boots stared at a man in awe. The echo of his deeds was swept heavy around his shoulders in waves of rippling velvet thick enough to drown in, and Tommy was almost to his eye level, but it didn't matter. The pig-man looked larger than life itself, the wisps of his fur cloak licking like flames at the nape of his neck._

_The kid was staring, and the warrior had noticed a long time ago, but he only elected to reluctantly prompt him after another prolonged silence._

_"Hm?"_

_"Techno, why do you always look so tired?"_

_The monotone of the first clashed awkwardly with the energy of the second, but that was fine. Tommy was used to the way people looked at him sometimes, like he was more of a bother than a help. It stung, admittedly, but he'd prove them wrong. He always did._

_The warrior peered at him like he was made of stone, and the bags that hung under his eyes looked like pressed-on tattoos, smears of dark against the light of raised scars._

_"... 'cause I'm tired," the warrior replied, flatly, "don't go expectin' anything complicated."_

_"Why would you be tired?"_

_Questions, questions. Tommy was full of them. He had to be, because Tubbo had never been quite able to voice his own, and Wilbur had always been too concerned about his reputation to disrupt the flow of the river. That was fine too. Tommy could take all the questions in for them. The warrior shifted in his seat, twisted the hilt of his sword in his hand so it caught the stray beams of the sun._

_"I'm tired of fightin'," he confessed, after a moment that dragged on so long Tommy was certain he wasn't going to talk at all; "I'm takin' a break, if you don't mind."_

_It was a dismissal, Tommy knew. He ignored it, something he did very well._

_"Aren't you the best?"_

_"Bein' the best isn't all it's cracked up to be."_

_Tommy scoffed. That was absurd. Being the best was_ always… _well. The best. (_ _Look, Tommy had never claimed to be a wordsmith.)_

_"That's stupid," he declared, with the utmost authority._

_The warrior rumbled, almost a laugh but not quite. Even then, Tommy had wondered faintly if the other man even knew how. It didn't look like it, with his expression set like a chilled statue, sword drawn across his lap like it was another addition to his painting-suited pose. Too regal. Too old._

_"Maybe," he admitted through stray pink strands, "but that's just the way things work. Too many people tryin' to challenge me."_

_"If you're that tired, why don't you just let them win?"_

_For the first time, a vibrant gaze flicked up from the hair's edge of his sword. The man shifted and the god sat in his place, dripping with phantom streaks of vibrant crimson. Tommy blinked, and the vision was gone, quicker than it had appeared. The stutter of his heartbeat remained, like the threat had shed an old cloak._

_"People train their entire lives for fightin'," the man said, like it was some great wisdom; "they spend all their time trainin', practicin', the whole deal. It takes years to learn to fight, and years longer to fight well."_

_Technoblade took a breath, like he was contemplating something._

_"... It's like spittin' in their face if I give them a hollow victory. That's just the way things are."_

_Tommy walked away from his first meeting with Technoblade with no better of an understanding of him than he’d had before — well, to be fair, it was Techno himself who moved first, but semantics had never been his expertise — but that final sentence had stuck with him, in a strange way. Lingered in the echoing hallways of a mind unwilling to accept it. Then, Tommy stood across from Dream with an arrow pulled back and a feather pressed flat to his cheek, and he heard it again. Saw the old aching wisdom of it in the lines of Dream’s unyielding posture, the grim set of his mouth._

_The arrow fired, and with it streaked a vibrant cut of flames._

_The bridge melted away, taking Dream with it. An arrow embedded itself into his shoulder, and he went crashing to the — floor?_

_Tommy pulled himself up from the dirt, spitting and gagging when he inhaled too deeply, choked on a plume of smoke that turned the sky to ashes around him. It should have burned, but it only felt like choking, and he was too panicked to comprehend why._

_Manburg — L'Manburg, it was L'Manburg — was in fucking flames, it was all burning and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. He'd gotten to Wilbur, he'd tackled him down, smashed the fucking remote, and it still wasn't enough._

_He'd failed, and Wilbur had blown up the festival. He'd blown up everything, everyone, and —_

_Oh._

_He was standing at the edge of the epicenter. His head shot up and he whirled, and the ground around him melted into the flaming remains of the podium, more of a crater than a stage. He shoved through debris with frantic, burning hands, and he didn't care if flames licked at his skin, because Tubbo had been on that fucking stage._

_He shoved and he threw and he chucked wooden debris over his shoulder, smashed the remains of what almost looked like jars underneath the soles of his shoes. Faster, faster — where was he? Where?!_

_"Tubbo!" He screamed to the open air with everything he had, shocked that he could even breathe between the suffocating swirls of death, even more so that his voice felt so strangled, so near silent despite his desperation, "Tubbo! Where are you, big man —"_

_He whirled in place, swept his eyes over the flaming remains of their country. It was happening again, and this time they didn't have any goddamn walls to save them. Schlatt had broken them all down, and Wilbur had… he'd..._

_Tommy stumbled over something, tripped and fell and skidded his palms painfully on shattered glass and pebbles._

_He looked back to see what the hell had stopped him, and…_

_Oh god —_

+

"TUBBO!"

Tommy shot up so aggressively that his stomach cramped immediately, trapped by his sheets as his torso twisted wildly in the confines of his bed. His chest heaved with frantic gasps in an attempt to regain his oxygen, ragged and rough and agonizingly ineffective. The echoes of his voice rang out in their cave like a sadistic mirror, bounced off their stone walls like they were determined to survive forever. 

Stone walls. Bare stone walls, empty of the chains and lanterns that hung from cobbled beams. Their cave. 

_Not Pogtopia. Not L'Manburg._ Through his frantic heaves, he only barely managed to register how much he wished he didn't still find comfort in that.

Tommy buried his face in his bare hands, trembling and pale as he tried to hug his chest. It was an instinctual action, and it did nothing for the crushing pressure that threatened to squeeze out his lungs. It felt horrifically different from Techno's grounding presence, but he didn't have any other options, so he squeezed and he inhaled and he hoped desperately that the blinding fog would lift if he lasted long enough. His breathing was labored and quick, too shallow and too weak as he tried in vain to calm his beating pulse. That was the worst the dreams had been for nearly three days, by far. 

_Three days,_ his brain whispered with an undertone he wished he could smother; _Techno had been gone for nearly three days, counting today._

His weak attempt to shift gears left him no better off than before. The dreams had been getting better — or at least so he'd thought — easing up somewhat under the eased up pressure of their new environment. The nightmarish hell had seemed to be settling down at least, moved from vivid, blinding terror to almost quiet — but consistent — unease. He hadn't accounted for them. He should have fucking known, and he was a goddamn idiot for forgetting, for thinking he'd be able to — be able to… 

Tommy choked, this time on a wrenched out sob.

It was just an image, that was the part he hated the most. An image he never saw, constructed from the blurry images of his subconscious, with no logical reason to believe any of it looked like that at all. That was all it was. That was all the pictures that haunted him were. They were fake lines scribbled between the few dots he'd managed to scrape together, so why did they haunt him like they were real? How was that fucking fair? 

Tommy had woken up three times over the course of the one night. It was on the third, this time, that he finally gave up, threw his blankets aside with as much force as his trembling limbs would allow — another half a wink of sleep wasn't worth this. 

He'd been sleeping fitfully at best, barely managing what felt like even half an hour in-between. To make things even worse, it looked like it wasn't even morning. The little of the sky he could make out through a miniscule window Techno dug was still a deep blue from what he could glean, bathing the world in that odd foggy chill that preceded the rising of the sun.

It reminded him rather painfully of the start, the seemingly endless days when he couldn't even shut his eyes without seeing the burning wreckage imprinted on his eyelids. Even that image had no right to be as vibrant as it was — Techno had reached out and tilted his head away from it, blocked out with his cloak as he slowly guided Tommy away on weakened limbs. The latter memory brought a new spark of pain, fresher than the last with the selfish connotations that made him feel too much like a desperate child. 

_Breathe,_ Techno's voice echoed, almost a ghost of an old conversation left in the open air; _breathe, Tommy. You're hyperventilatin', you need to breathe._

If Techno had been here, the dreams would have been easier. It was always easier when he was present, stable and quiet and threatening in the most comforting of ways. Tommy had been resentful of the need for that, once, but now he longed for it with an unabashedness that surprised him. He and Techno had only one another — it had been so fucking long since Tommy could depend on someone. He'd lost Wilbur long before the man left himself. 

Tommy wiped hard at his face, sucked in a shaking breath that chilled his throat and iced his lungs. It wasn’t fair to be mad at Technoblade — he knew it wasn’t. But god, he missed him, and he thought at least _that_ was fair. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pretend there was a shadow falling over his bedside, tried to pretend he could hear the shifting of heavy fabric and the quiet _clop_ of battleworn bootheels meeting stone floors. 

Slowly — painfully slowly — Tommy lowered his arms. He unclenched his nails from where they'd dug crescents into his skin, where they'd bunched up the fabric of his already creased sleeves and smeared them with his tears. By the time his vision cleared up enough for him to actually see the area around him for longer than a second, he felt more exhausted than he had the night before, like he'd been dragged through soul sand and dumped in a pit. 

His blankets were on the floor, and he had to stoop down to reach for them, dragging them back up and onto the mattress with his uselessly clammy, trembling hands. He dug his fingers into the material, clutched it as tightly as he could just to feel the pressure, just to see his grip stabilize against the plush. It was a hollow victory. 

When he could finally manage to breathe without his lungs aching in his chest, he carefully pushed his blankets to the side, bunched them up against the corner instead of shoving them recklessly to the floor. His bare hands ached at the knuckles like he'd punched a wall. Bandages. He needed his bandages. He’d tried to stop wearing them to bed since they needed to be replaced once he woke up anyway, but maybe it would help if he resumed the old habit. 

He pulled himself up by propping his hand against his headboard, squinting as vertigo threatened to bowl him over. He walked unsteadily to the chest, collapsed to his knees as he dug around. Bottles, iron, tools…

Bandages. 

He pulled a roll from the pile, uncaring for if it was the one he'd already started to use up. He pulled the thin fabric around his hands methodically. _Maybe_ , he thought quietly with another bout of humor he truly didn't feel as he pulled it around his wrist, _it would be enough to keep him together._ Another cheesy line that settled like concrete powder in his gut, heavy and painful enough to ache. 

At the very least, the pressure helped. The trembling eased up a bit as he clenched and unclenched his bandaged fists, pressed protected knuckles against his palms to test them. He'd gotten incredibly efficient at the process, enough so that even sleep deprivation and exhausted panic couldn't ruin it. He ran his newly wrapped hand roughly through his hair, pushed it back and away from his face. It had grown out longer than he'd wanted it, reminded him of the older days in ways that both warmed him and ached. 

He glanced up at the singular window once more, hidden carefully as to avoid attracting suspicion. The meager light that streamed in from it was slightly brighter now, although still tinged with more blue than yellow. Dawn then, if not early morning. Tommy tried not to think about how long he must have spent on his bed, curled in half like a traumatized toddler. A brief glance was thrown back to his bed, then down to his hands, contemplating. He reached for his crossbow. There was no way he was going back to sleep, so he might as well try and burn off some of the remnants of his anxious energy. Maybe then he'd be able to stomach breakfast. 

+

The air of the morning always felt different. Far chillier to be sure, but the crisp, near shocking nature of it was almost like a splash of ice cold water to the face. When Tommy stepped out with his crossbow slung carefully over his shoulder, he inhaled. 

He decided he'd go to the top of their cliff — hill? — and shoot at the mobs below for target practice, something Technoblade had him do every once in a while to get better at spotting them hiding amongst the trees. Mobs were always especially plentiful in the mornings, since coming off the tail end of the evening meant that many of them had run instinctually for cover from the first streaks of sunlight. They usually tended to thin out their numbers somewhat as the day went on, distracted by their animalistic urge to attack and consume until they stepped out and burst into flames. Tommy never really figured out why, but he assumed it had something to do with the magic that reanimated old remains. 

When Tommy managed to climb to the top, he hopped the fence that surrounded the area, vaulting over the edge with a quiet huff. The fenced off "training area" was something that Techno had built around the time they'd started. It was remarkably sturdy; the fenceposts were chiseled from wood and set deep into the dirt, so they took his weight easily as he leaned heavily against it when he stared out across the treetops. The morning fog that littered the area was still present, a heavy blanket of white that blurred the trunks below until it all looked vaguely haunted. Once, it had been something unsettling, but Tommy had grown terribly familiar with it during their time holed up in their cave. He'd considered carving his name into one of the tree trunks, an old tradition he'd brought from each base, a way to mark his existence if he ever moved on. 

(He hadn't done it at Pogtopia though, the first of his many bases to miss it. They couldn't afford to make their mark, lest they be found — Wilbur had made that very clear back then, tones varying from gentle and firm to near manic with ripples of paranoia. Tommy squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head hard to try and clear the memory away.)

 _Training,_ he murmured soundlessly into the cool open air, clinging to the sting of ice against his lungs; _focus on the training._

He squinted down below and tried to track any movement on what was essentially a lower cloud. He couldn't see much, but he could at least make out the trunks of the trees, and if nothing else it would help to sharpen his instinctive aim. Technoblade was near terrifyingly good at all forms of combat that he'd displayed, but his instincts seemed to be one of the strongest senses he had. He'd listen and look, observe his surroundings even as he was firing off his first shot, already moving like lightning to load the second. It was remarkable, and it was something Techno almost seemed to believe Tommy could do too. His faith had been enough to propel Tommy forward into his efforts, and aiming practice had quickly become one of his most active skills. He hadn't been _bad_ at it before, but his improvement was incredible, to the point where even Tommy could see the vast strides. Had he this kind of training back _then,_ he probably would never have… 

_("Ten paces, fire!"_

_Tommy had whirled with the adrenaline and terror bleeding into his veins, hands near trembling as he threw his body backwards. An arrow flew right by his face as he went crashing over the side of the bridge, plummeting into the water below, barely enough time to snag even a glimpse of Dream, standing with his hands steady and his aim steadier, expression hidden and petrifying behind the emotionless porcelain._

_He gasped, almost lost his grip as he swam up, gagging on stolen air. Even then, he'd reached for his bow, strung another shot. It missed wildly, Dream barely had to sidestep as he pulled back an arrow of his own, speed near blinding with the energy of a madman._

_He saw the green of his cloak billow seconds before he felt it._

_His first shot had missed Tommy's head by mere centimeters. The second met its mark in his shoulder, and that was the end of it. He'd never had a chance.)_

His grip around the crossbow tightened to the point where he faintly worried the wood would splinter beneath his bandaged fingertips. He let go immediately, a spark of quiet panic rising at the very thought. 

His first bolt left his weapon with ease. It whirled away with nary a whistle, out of sight in half a millisecond, but he heard the heavy _thunk_ as it vanished into the branches, buried within the leaves and caused the tree itself to shake. A few errant birds flew out, squawking angrily with the rage of the disturbed, and he huffed amusedly to himself. He'd hit it, even if the shot was a little too high — a little too wild, off-centered by his stiff muscles. It wasn't a bad start, and the weapon in his hands was a hell of a help — not that he was surprised. Anything made by Technoblade was duty-bound to perform with a punch. 

He remembered with near blinding clarity the day Technoblade had given it to him. Techno, as Tommy had long since discovered, wasn't exactly prone to fits of open pride or emotional gestures. His gestures of approval tended to be more subtle, less words and more action, more quiet faith and constant presences than it was elaborate tapestries. 

It had been right before the chill had begun to set in, perhaps only a few days before the mornings began to be accompanied by fog. Techno had pulled him out of the cave for another morning training session, and Tommy had gone without protest. Since the first attempt he hadn't touched Techno's crossbow, but the brand new weapon the pig-man handed to him that day was similar enough to it that he'd nearly done a double take. A mistake, right? It had to be a —

 _"If you can't start usin' mine,"_ Techno had said, the tone no-no sense and booking no room at all for Tommy to attempt to deny it, _"then we'll try gettin' you used to this one instead. Your old one is terrible."_

Tommy agreed, because that was what you did when Technoblade had an opinion on your weapons, and that had been that. 

The next shot missed by a wide margin, soared into the forest and likely buried itself into the grass instead, never to be discovered again. Tommy cursed quietly under his breath, almost unwilling to speak any louder lest he break the near tranquil calm. His next shots met steady tree trunks, carved even arcs into the air and buried themselves into the wood. He tried his best to focus on the distant buzz of pins and needles against his palms, and not on the lack of a steady presence behind his shoulder.

(It only sort of worked, but really, he had grown not to expect anything more.)

+

Tommy had grown to hate the trips down to Schlatt's cell, but in a manner his past self likely would never have imagined. 

Ever since that day, since the day it had finally sunk in in every manner he'd wished it wouldn't, Schlatt had been… uncomfortably silent. Near avoidant, even, as he pressed his back to the same god-damned wall. It wasn't to say that the man was absent, or that his eyes had softened — but his gaze was wearier now, plagued by something heavy that Tommy couldn't quite decipher. Something he'd refused to see before, save for a brief moment where they both had been weakened shells. A moment he would rather have forgotten. 

He looked... _old._ Older than any of them should have been, even Schlatt, really — and Tommy felt an unfamiliar sense of new disquiet swirl in his gut whenever his eyes met uncomfortably dimmed yellow. More the pages of an ancient book than the shimmer of polished gold. Privately, he still wasn't sure if that was because of his own surprising willful ignorance or because of the unease the situation provoked. He'd begun to even predict the patterns of the days, the trips and the maps of Schlatt's heavy steps. The amount of clicks it took for worn out soles to meet iron bars, then back again. 

Schlatt's tone had been almost placid when he shattered the silence. Conversational. So casual that Tommy's brain stuttered to keep up, to register the sentence before it finished. 

“So,” Schlatt’s voice was an echo in the chamber, bounced off his walls like they had purposefully closed their ears to it, “when’s he getting back from the nether?”

Schlatt’s voice was raspy, roughened from disuse and scraggy, almost in the same manner as his hair. Even so, he spoke with a quiet smooth ease, practiced and disturbingly near gentle, like he hadn’t been keeping up some strange silent ritual for what amounted to nearly two days. Tommy wanted to strangle him, but he stomped down on his reaction with all the force he could, pushing his stiff hands down to fall to his sides. It was a strange impulse, reactionary and reckless in a way that he no longer knew if he would ever identify with again. 

“What?”

To his credit, his voice was remarkably steady as he spoke, lacking the tense anxiety that suddenly rocketed up to his throat. He didn’t even sound choked up, since he quickly managed to coax his voice to what he assumed was his neutral irritation. But for all his efforts, Schlatt seemed undeterred, tilting the half-full bottle of water in his fingertips like an old hourglass. 

“You heard me,” the ram-horned man drawled, low and calm, “when is he getting back? Only so much shit someone can do there, right? Not that I’d be worried, he’s been through too much crap to die to a stupid magma cube.”

Schlatt scrunched up his face, ran a heavy hand over his scruff of a beard. His back was pressed once again to the farthest wall adjacent to the bars, and he wasn’t even making eye contact. And yet, Tommy suddenly felt flayed open, shot right where he hadn’t been expecting it. How had Schlatt even known? More importantly, had he known the entire time? No, that wasn’t possible. Technoblade would have told him first. Tommy gritted his teeth, but he kept his expression carefully neutral, twisted it into near incredulity — or at least tried to. He suddenly wished he'd shared Wilbur's penchant for acting, back before it turned into something horrific. 

“You’re losing it down here,” he grumbled. 

“Maybe,” Schlatt agreed, faint, and something in his voice made Tommy think he believed it, "But not about this. A lot has changed about you, Tommy, but you’re still a pretty shitty liar.” 

The sentence would have been accompanied by a wry smile, a long time ago. A toothy grin pulled from hell itself, swathed in the souls of those trapped between its' wicked bones. But Schlatt didn't smile as he spoke, didn't smirk or sigh. He tapped a fingernail against the glass of the bottle, he made direct fucking eye contact, and he still managed to look exhausted. Tommy didn't reply. Schlatt looked almost like he'd been expecting it. 

"Can't believe he left you alone, either," Schlatt continued, almost distant; "I mean shit, doesn't seem like you were ready for it. Kind of hasty if you ask me." 

He _didn't,_ but Schlatt knew that. Schlatt may have changed, but he hadn't lost his mind. Tommy pressed his tongue to the flat edge of his molars, bit down gently enough not to draw blood, but hard enough to silence his answering grumble. Schlatt was right, he _was_ a bad liar, and he couldn't afford to be hasty. To his equal fortune and misfortune, Schlatt seemed surprisingly open to filling the space. An ill-fitting suit he hadn't donned in long enough that it no longer slid snugly over his shoulders.

“I think I liked it better when you shut up.”

Tommy’s voice was sharp, but he wasn’t sure if he meant it. The silence had been nearly oppressive, and as much as he hated their conversations, he had been growing antsy alone. It was likely only because of that that he hesitated, that he didn’t just bolt up the stairs and away. 

The silence returned. Tommy had to resist the urge to shift his weight from foot to foot as he trained his eye on Schlatt's water bottle — the only real, concrete reason he should even still be here. 

“You know what this kind of reminds me of?” Schlatt asked, as if Tommy had never spoken at all, “this reminds me of that one book… the one with the guy who eats people, y’know? They kept him in a cell for consultations, and this chick comes to visit and ask him about other crimes. He gives her advice in exchange for answers about other shit. Quid pro quo, that kind of thing.” 

It was the most Schlatt had spoken in a while, and of course it had to be about something that made Tommy’s skin crawl. 

“That’s a fucked up story,” Tommy replied, lacking the bite of venom he wished for, “what, is that a confession, big man?” 

Schlatt laughed. The sound was quiet, almost muffled, a direct contrast to the boom of the past. 

“Nah,” he chuffed, “too bloody for my taste — no pun intended.”

At last, he drained the remainder of the water in his bottle. He set it on the usual little ledge and took his usual steps back, and Tommy grabbed it with his usual speed. Usual, normal... _strained._

Tommy had a hunch that Schlatt was going to say one more thing. He wasn’t sure why that was enough to slow his steps. He wasn’t sure how he felt about being right, either. 

“You look like shit you know,” Schlatt called over his shoulder, “not that I’m any better. Try sleeping.”

Tommy scoffed, and he didn't bother dignifying it with a response. It didn't feel like a victory, but he didn't pretend it was one. 

He needed to take a walk. 

+

_Schlatt didn’t know what he was talking about._

Tommy tugged the leather of his strap tightly against his shoulder, dug his fingertips into the edge until his knuckles turned white. He’d grabbed his bag hastily as soon as he’d gotten topside, only stopping for a second to throw on a diamond chest plate and hook a sword to his side. To his credit though, he hadn’t done anything particularly reckless — Techno would be glad to hear that he hadn’t gone and punched another wall. 

It was mid-afternoon, perhaps a bit later, and the sun was still near the center of the sky as he quietly closed the door behind him. The crossbow at his back was heavy, almost grounding as he squinted up past the trees. He started off from their clearing, weaving quickly in-between trees and allowing his thoughts to run with the gentle breeze. 

He had time to fish, maybe. The river had become a place of solace for him now, somewhere the silence could fall instead into white noise, free of the pressures of forced solitude and strained absences. He could sit by it for hours — had, on the second day, when the buzzing had grown too loud and he needed a reminder of real lasting sound — and feel almost normal. He hadn't brought his fishing rod, but that was fine. He'd grown to be pretty resourceful, and although impractical, he really didn't want to go back for it now. He wasn't near boiling, but his skin felt too tight, and he wasn't certain he'd be able to keep his level calm if he caught another glimpse of the door. 

He ran bandaged palms over his sleeves, brushed off a few stray leaves that had caught on the fabric. His white undershirt was permanently stained a bit near the cuffs, but that was fine. All things considered, he was more impressed that his clothes were still functional. He wasn't certain what he'd do once they weren't — maybe he'd try and do what Technoblade did and patch up the holes with streaks of spider's silk, almost like the bandages. On the other hand, considering the mess he'd made the first time, he could count all sorts of ways that he'd only make matters worse.

He broke abruptly from the treeline where it met the riverbank, and with it came the familiar rush of bubbling sound that was enough to blot out the distant buzz of old anger and quiet upset. Relief, Tommy had come to realize, came often in the strangest of forms. He glanced around perfunctorily, but there was no sign of any wayward mobs. Not even a distant zombie hiding beneath the leaves for sparing cover. It looked so peaceful that it almost ached, and Tommy wondered faintly when that had become his baseline. Probably somewhere along the lines of his exile, if he was being frank with himself. The unpleasant memory stung like an old injury that got a bit too cold, so he shook it off in hopes of getting it to fall away from his mind again. 

As he bent down with his weight on one knee, he examined the flow of the river. He couldn't see any fish, but that was alright. The plan — loose as it had been — was only for the sake of having it. Tommy settled by the side, uncaring of the sand that snuck into his shoes. He pressed his bag close to his legs and stared up at the rolling of the clouds, and he didn't bother rolling up his pantlegs. He didn't plan to actually wade into the water. On the other side of the river, he spotted a small yellow lump, hanging from one of the branches. From it, a small shadow emerged, striped in perfect lines of black and yellow. 

Was that…?

_("Wh — pfft — Tubbo, what the hell are you doing, big man?"_

_Tubbo glanced up at him once, then twice, like he hadn't noticed Tommy had been walking up to him at all. He waved him away almost aggressively, bent down on one knee with a hand outstretched to something Tommy couldn't quite see._

_"You're scaring the bees, Tommy!" Tubbo admonished, like Tommy should have known._

_"The fucking what?"_

_Tommy couldn't help his snort, but Tubbo looked nearly affronted, and he found out why a moment later. He watched as a little yellow bug flew right out of his reach, and he flinched back a bit as it flew by his ear. He hated the buzzing bit — the bees themselves were fine, but it always made him fucking paranoid._

_Even so, Tubbo's irritated expression was enough to make him sigh, to press his palms flat against open air._

_"Let's go look for a hive," he suggested, as if that wasn't a terrible idea bound to give them a hell's worth of stings. Tubbo wouldn't shut up about it otherwise, he reasoned. Better to get it out of the way now._

_And if Tubbo's answering grin was enough to make Tommy look a little past dusk, hey, he'd never claimed to be a bad friend.)_

Tommy blinked, and the vision that haunted him faded into the background, drowned out by the rush of water against the stones. But even as it vanished into the air, the little hive remained. Bees and all. 

_Maybe grabbing honey wouldn't be a bad idea,_ he thought, _as a gift for Technoblade when he returned._ Tubbo would certainly approve, he was certain. He'd always been so sure of honey's status as the perfect gift back when he'd been able to keep his bees in peace. Versatile, non-perishable, and delicious. 

So was that why..?

_("I found bees in the office, once.")_

...

In hindsight, he just hadn't been focused. It was his fault, it had to be. He only barely heard it, distracted as he was. Not to mention that the sound was very nearly drowned out by the rapid speed of the water lapping against the sand.

 _The hiss_ processed a second too slow to run.

Tommy turned, tugged his bag into his arms on muscle memory alone as his heart dropped into fucking bedrock. He was just in time to catch a glimpse of flickering, blinking green, a warped frowning face with sparks of mindless rage behind the eyes. Just like it had before, months ago, a flash of horrific green preceded disaster, a silent footman of the four horsemen. 

For the second time in Tommy's blur of a recent memory, everything erupted into smears of blinding, shattering orange and horrific, wretched red, and all he could think was — was —

_God, he should have just built the fucking fence._

\-----

+

\-----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed Summary: 
> 
> Tommy wakes up three days after Technoblade went into the nether, stirred by a terrible nightmare. He goes to train to clear his head, a habit he received from Techno over their months together. He feeds Schlatt, who has been keeping up a strange silent treatment for that time, finally breaking his silence to reveal that he knew where Techno was the entire time. (So it seems, anyway.)
> 
> Tommy leaves to sit by the river and blow off a bit of steam, even taking a moment to reminisce about bees and his old friends, but his short-lived peace is quite literally blown to pieces by a passing creeper.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they always say, its one step forward and two steps back. In Tommy's case, the steps seem more eager to go sideways.
> 
> Or
> 
> In the aftermath of a creeper attack, Tommy learns that dreams and memories are not the same thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I get a 66,500 WORDS POG?? Goodness, can you believe that this initially began as a oneshot? A long oneshot (about 7.5k), but a oneshot nonetheless. 
> 
> I'm well aware that I likely sound like a broken record when I say this (yikes, don't tell Tommy eh?) but I sincerely appreciate all of the support I've gotten so far through this story. I've received absolutely gorgeous fanart, long analytical comments, and more interested readers than I ever could have imagined. We're very close to 1,000 total kudos, and 14,000 hits, which... good god, thats a lot. This chapter, and every chapter, is dedicated to you, my dear readers. (And just as a heads up, this chapter actually is the longest I've ever published, surpassing even chapter one! So I hope it is worth the wait. Hilariously, I used to have a 4,000 word benchmark for each chapter, but somewhere along the way it edged up into 5,000. Oops.)
> 
> Anyway, enough of my babbling haha. As always, comments, kudos, criticism, and feedback of any kind fuel my writer's soul.
> 
> Please enjoy <3

* * *

_Mercy is a shapeshifter, coming in the strangest of forms. Eternally drifting past the oceans with the faintest hint of familiarity. But, that in itself poses a question of uncomfortable nature. A question of intent, of results and woven webs._

_By finding shelter beneath the cover of a spider's web, was one responsible for the flies caught in it's strings?_

\-----

+

\-----

_"Tommy!"_

His eyes opened slowly, the shutter of a broken camera lens. The actual vision itself wasn't much better, blurred and cracked down the center with every blink, crusted over with the remnants of sleep. He rubbed at his eyes with his bare palms, grumbling as he rolled over and shoved his face into his pillow. There was a stifled laugh over his shoulder, almost a snort.

"Fuck off, Tubbo." He muttered, voice craggy from sleep; "Why are you even here?"

"Don't be a baby, Tommy. Wilbur's gonna be pissed off if you miss breakfast again." 

"Then let him be pissed! What do I care?" 

He flipped a bird over his shoulder and rolled on his side. After a moment of thought, Tommy threw one of his pillows grumpily over his shoulder too, and although he wasn't able to actually _see,_ Tubbo's answering _hmph_ as it made impact made him hide a victorious snicker in the sheets. Tubbo reached out and grabbed for his shoulder anyway though, forcefully rolling him over with an exasperated furrow of his brow and a false-grim set of his lips. He looked more exasperated than anything, but that was just Tommy; he was always able to read Tubbo like a book. 

"Tommy," the shorter boy scolded, just a hair away from pleading. There should have been more — would have been, if it had been anyone else sent to get him — but there wasn't. Tubbo just looked at him, arms crossed and eyes expectant, like it was all already a foregone conclusion. And yeah, maybe he was right, but Tubbo didn't have to be all smug about it. 

God. And he called _Tommy_ clingy. 

"Alright, alright! Jesus, big man, twist my arm why dontcha." 

He pushed himself up as the bed beneath him let out a valiant _creak,_ shifting under his weight. He needed a better one, probably, he'd just about worn this one down to splinters over the years. Wilbur always nagged about it, saying his posture was already shit enough without the bad support. Honestly, that might have played a part into why he _hadn't_ — his posture was fine, thank you very much, he just didn't feel like intimidating everyone around him. 

Speaking of which, he actively towered over Tubbo as his friend pulled him to his feet. Tubbo had surprisingly strong grip strength though, so it was simple enough to yank him out. When he was up, Tommy tugged absently at the wrinkled mess of his shirt, squinting down in displeasure at the smears of dirt. 

_(Wait —)_

"Can you hurry up already? I'm not letting my toast get stale so you can stare at nothing, Tommy!" 

Tubbo's voice snipped through the fog, and he rolled his eyes as he massaged the back of his neck. It ached a little — he'd probably slept strangely again. Not that he'd tell Wilbur that; he wasn't looking to hear yet another long-winded lecture this early in the day. He followed dutifully behind his friend instead, hands shoved half-hazardly into the pockets of his jeans. Distantly, he realized that he hadn't dreamed at all. That was odd. 

"I got more honey," Tubbo informed him absently as they walked, "from the hive, obviously. It's been growing pretty rapidly, so we should be all set for a while!" 

"You mean _you,"_ Tommy laughed, "you're the one who eats the most of that shit, y'know that right?" 

"Sure, but that's all the more reason to get a steady supply! That way when everyone tries it, it'll be a constant thing." 

Tommy wasn't really sure if that made any sense at all, but there was little else in the world that Tubbo got more passionate about than his bees. It was a side project at first, something to add on to the progression of his house, but as time went on, he'd grown more and more attached to the idea. Tommy, ever the sufferer, was strung along as well, dragged into the forest behind Tubbo in search of proper wood for new hive setups. It seemed kind of pointless to him — especially since Tubbo spent more time with them than at his own house these days — but whatever. It made him happy, and Tommy never claimed to be heartless. 

"Good morning sleeping beauty," Wilbur's voice called. Tommy's small smile twisted immediately into a faux scowl, and he pointed his middle finger at Wilbur's back. 

"Fuck off, that's not even creative," he called back. He couldn't see it, but he distinctly heard the way Wilbur rolled his eyes from the sound of his snicker, so he might as well have. 

"Sit down and shut up, _child._ There's an open seat beside Fundy." 

Tommy grumbled something vague about _knowing that,_ and _he had fuckin' eyes you know._

Even so, he slid dutifully into the seat beside the fox. Tubbo hopped into the one across from him, hands already occupied by a plate stacked with three slices of toasted bread. His best friend didn't even open his mouth for more than a second before Fundy was sliding over a jar of opened honey, one eyebrow raised expectantly. Tubbo must have moved like a fucking machine when he wanted to, because it seemed like Tommy only had time to blink once before his toast was smothered in the stuff. It was like time had physically stuttered, skipped ahead somehow. Tubbo beamed. 

"Thanks," Tubbo chirped, a bit too late and through a mouthful of crumbs, "you want some?" 

"I'll pass," Fundy snorted, leaning a bit away from the mess; "too sweet for me." 

Tubbo turned to Tommy, but he was already shaking his head. 

"All yours, big man. I'll wait for whatever shit Wilbur's got cooking." He muttered the last part, and he caught Fundy's eye as the fox's shoulders ducked with stifled laughter. A dry sponge flew through the air and made direct contact, smacking into Fundy's hat and falling uselessly to the floor. 

"I heard that!" Wilbur scoffed as he tugged down his rolled up yellow sleeves. Tommy shrugged unapologetically, and Fundy seemed content just to dust off his cap. 

Wilbur walked over in three even strides, easy work for him — he was incredibly long and lanky, even in comparison to Tommy himself. He pushed a bit of hair from his eyes, expression blatantly unimpressed even as he deposited a plate of pancakes in the middle of the table. 

"Ungrateful brats," he snorted, "I should just let you starve." 

Tommy could see the tug of a smile at the corner of Wilbur's lips, but he didn't mention it. Breakfast waited for no man — and Tubbo had a point, letting shit get cold was the bane of good food. He reached out and over the table for the syrup, and —

_"Shit."_

His elbow knocked right into a glass of water — how had he missed that? — and it went tumbling to the ground, the contents splashing all over him with a frigid wave of foreign cold. There was a lot of it. More than he'd have thought actually, more a pitcher full than a glass. There wasn't any ice in it either, so it was strange that it made him feel like he'd nearly been struck. He was shocked Wilbur hadn't said anything about the mess. He'd been ready for a comment on clumsy children, or even just a curse at the broken glass. But nothing. In fact, nobody said much of anything. Not even Fundy for that matter, and they were right next to one another; there was no way he hadn't spilled some of it on him. Tommy wanted to look up to briefly apologise, but his neck cricked suddenly, an ache shooting up from the same spot as before, almost like it was an old injury flaring up from the chill. And god, it _was_ cold. Why was it so cold? Did Wilbur forget to close the window or something? 

When he opened his mouth, he coughed before he could get a coherent word out. It felt like something was stuck in his throat — but that didn't make sense either, he hadn't even eaten anything yet. Clearing his throat didn't help either. If anything, it only made it feel like he had to cough harder, and seriously, _why the hell was he so cold?_

His coughing turned to hacking, then to a serious of near painful gags. He felt sick. He coughed one final time and water spilled suddenly from his throat, cold enough to make his lips feel numb as he fell from his seat, collapsing to the floor. He coughed and he coughed, and the water wouldn't _stop, why wouldn't it —_

+

_(Inhale—!)_

Tommy's eyes shot open again as the world cracked in two, throat aching horribly as his throat seized. Freezing cold water had surrounded him, soaked everything from his pants to halfway up his chest. It wasn't like waking up from a dream was; abrupt and painless. It was like dragging his very head out of a plume of soul sand, a fugue state that made it so he could hardly process the world around him. He focused instead on the near vibrant shock of the water — _that_ was why he was so fucking cold. His right ear rang with a high pitched screech, bouncing off his eardrums until it felt like he might have gone deaf. 

Tommy was strewn out uselessly on the riverbank, more than half submerged in the water, and to add insult to painful injury — oh god, his arm _stung_ — the sun had fucking _gone down._ Had he been knocked out? By what—?

_... shit._

His head was spinning still, blurring the world around him and making it come in and out of focus like the faulty lens on a camera, and he only just managed to roll himself to his stomach, braced on his left arm like a plank of wood. He felt sicker with every shuddering blink, forced to fight back the urge to vomit — after all the water, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to take it. Tommy shuddered, the chill of the cold air paralyzing as he tried to dig his fingers into the dirt. He needed to _move_ — it was too dark now, and he was dead meat if enough mobs came to one spot, saw him with his face in the dirt and his clothes heavier from the water's weight. Move. _Move_ damn it — _MOVE._

Even with his eyes squeezed shut, the ringing remained. He could still see the flash of light behind his eyes, peering over his shoulder like a fucking shadow. His chest grew tighter and tighter with every passing moment, and he had absolutely no clue whether it was because of the memory or the cold. Maybe it was both. He cracked open his eyes, squinted down at his shaking hands, shifting them until he could see. The bandages on his left were less soaked than he'd thought they would be, but dirt had smeared them completely, and the edges were covered in soot, likely gathered from the charred area around the crater. On the right, he flinched as he bent his elbow, hissing at the lingering ache that felt like he'd dragged sandpaper over his skin. A few of his bandages on that side had loosened to the point of nearly having slipped off, edges slightly blackened with ash. 

His heart squeezed at the sight, and for a moment he wondered if it was even possible for him to have a heart attack. The idea was terrifying, so he tried to focus on anything else — the chill, the breeze; whatever he could manage. 

Far to the right he heard a distant rustle, almost inaudible from the roar of the river. On the second pass, it registered. The drag of slow, rotten shoes, the stumble of a corpse given horrific magical mobility.

Fuck. He needed to go, and he needed to go now, but his stupid body wouldn't move. Eyes stinging with the beginnings of either tears or irritation, he slammed his fist into the sand, desperation bleeding into every breath. He had to go — he had to, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from the blackened soot, from the small smothered flames that licked the edges of the grass. His left hand tightened around a leather strap, the hook of his bag. Whatever was inside had to be soaked through now — save for maybe the potion Techno had given him. 

A voice fighting an echoing ring. 

_Tommy,_ _where do you want to go?_

.

.

.

The mob — whatever the hell it was, Tommy wasn't going to risk a look — broke through the brush just as Tommy threw his body upward, heart thundering like it was beating only because of adrenaline. The world swam beneath his feet as he launched himself forward, stumbled up and dodged underneath the grasping hands of the undead. He yanked his bag to his side and bolted, fighting off vertigo and desperately trying to avoid looking at the crater. He had to — the water was gone now and so was the sting, and he didn't know if he'd be able to cling to focus without it if he let it slip from his grasp. 

He swallowed hard, like he'd ingested sharp chunks of gravel. _Run._ He had to run, and hope desperately that he wouldn't encounter another one. The trees became a shadow-like blur, endless and ancient as he flew down their trodden path. Somewhere along the line he must have caught the eye of a skeleton, because an arrow whizzed by his head and lodged into a tree beside him. He ducked frantically for cover, bolted past while shoving his memories down a fucking pit and pleading for them to stay. 

_Not yet,_ he breathed to himself, desperate and near manic with adrenaline. _Not yet!_

Bursting into the open clearing was a relief he hadn't been prepared for, even when his direction changed to focus only on the light. He didn't know how many mobs were after him, he didn't know if any of them were blinking white and green. Tommy blew past the torches and reached with hands that nearly vibrated with terror for the handle, throwing it open with new force and slamming it so loudly behind him that the door rattled on it's sturdy hinges. An echo of the past, but this time Technoblade wasn't around to save him. 

He managed exactly two more steps before he collapsed. Crumbled like an old statue broken at the base, slamming into the ground and scattering marble and limestone like the beginnings of old sand. His bag fell by the wayside, most objects within it likely soaked — and in the case of extra bandages, useless — and he didn't have the wherewithal to care. Breathing came in heavy, near hyperventilatory bursts, squeezed at his throat and strangled his lungs until he felt like he'd fall apart. Too many rubber bands stretched around his midsection, pressure pushed to a single point. His arm hurt, his chest burned. But he made it. 

_He made it._

+

Tommy would have sat there forever. Hell, he wasn't sure if he hadn't — losing time felt all too familiar now, something he could only just barely fight off with fingers bent into agonized claws. But without the pumping blasts of his heart numbing the impact of his steps, the ache of his arm intensified again, a grim reminder of something he hadn't been able to force himself to look at yet. Whatever it was, it fucking hurt, and Tommy knew distantly that it wasn't something he could afford to just leave alone. That meant magic, if he didn't want to risk infection. That meant bandages, and water. 

That meant _potions._

Techno had, in typical fashion, of course not waited until dire straits to go to the nether, although he'd definitely pushed it off as long as he could reasonably manage. Because of that, to a painful amount of relief, Tommy didn't need to use the regeneration potion — didn't have to pull out all the fucking stops because of his own _god-damned ignorance, stupid, stupid stupid—!_

He shifted just a bit too far, and the sharp pain was enough to slam him back down to earth, enough to slap him to awareness and shove him on trembling feet toward the chest. He rattled through the contents almost clumsily, despite the ease with which he should have been able to locate the shimmering glow of the healing potions. It was almost like seeing double, and he wasn't sure if he could smother the quiet ache that came with every new inhale. His trembling fingertips closed around the neck of a glowing bottle; it would have to be enough. 

He considered chugging it and being done with it — he would have, even. But a lingering glance that was not present at all bored holes into his shirt, burned the back of his skull until he lent a silent ear to their determined whispers, no matter how reluctantly. 

He knew he had to clean it, on the off chance that it was worse than his adrenaline laden body would allow him to know. Assessing the damage to make sure nothing would get caught while the skin healed over was essential; healing potions were a miracle of medicine to be certain — even basic ones were swathed in magic like a blessed pool — but they worked with what someone already had, and being reckless in an attempt to harness speed could cause all kinds of issues if the wound was severe enough. He'd been lucky — _god, what a word_ — last time, since he'd been far away from the impact site. Granted, a creeper was a far smaller scale than the hellscape Wilbur had unleashed, but it was closer. He had to be careful. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, he set the potion bottle on the ground. Even slower, he chanced a glance down at the ache of his right arm, bracing himself for something that could make him sick. 

To his mixed relief and confusion, the wound was… _less_ bad than he'd expected. It was gruesome in the way that any injury was, unsettling to witness anything but mostly unblemished skin where his memory told him it should be. But whilst his long white sleeve was ruined, smeared and burned with a bit of fabric hanging at the bottom, his actual arm only sported what looked to be some kind of burn. Tommy didn't know what exactly _classified_ the different types of burns — what made one worse than another — but he distantly recalled something about the pain being important. If you could feel it, it wasn't the worst. And Tommy could _definitely_ fucking feel it. 

The breath that he let out in an exhale was shaky, trembled as it left his lips like the air itself was too thick to break through. He reached blindly for another water bottle, then for a wad of anything somewhat soft, working on muscle memory alone as he averted his gaze, focusing on the bag he'd dropped by the door. 

From there, he worked agonizingly slowly. He dripped a bit of water on his arm — _fuck_ — and a bit on the cloth, a wad of bandage failures that Techno had never quite gotten around to fixing. Tommy was grateful for it now, since the raggedy nature of the poorly woven wool was gentler than the stiff finished bandages would be. Once he deemed it safe, he dribbled a little bit of the healing potion directly on the wound. 

Tommy would never get used to the way healing potions specifically sunk into the skin of the user, as all instant effect potions did. The sight was incredibly odd even after all these years, almost as if the liquid evaporated into thin air as soon as it made contact, leaving a soothing cooling or warming sensation in their wake depending upon the need. In his case it was cold, almost numbing as the magic flicked up in gentle glowing swirls. A distinct line of healed skin against the rest. The relief was so instantaneous that he had to resist the urge to dump the whole thing over his arm and be done with it — he couldn't afford to waste it like that. 

The skin left behind was a bit pink and raw, raised like a scar that had been present for a couple years. But when he poked it it didn't ache with anything but phantom dredges of pain, and he felt comfortable enough with that to drink the rest of the potion instead. While it did nothing for the race of his heart, it helped with the throbbing ache at the base of his neck, and he figured that needed to be enough. 

Empty glass set to the side, Tommy started work on removing the scraps of ruined fabric. The damage wasn't as severe as it could have been, but the entirety of his right sleeve was ruined beyond hope of repair. As he peeled the bandages off his hands a bit of fabric fluttered to the ground, and he grimaced at the sight. He didn't have a spare set here, in their unnamed little cave, and the dichotomy of his right and left sides was unsettling at best. He was also reasonably sure he was in shock — which, fuck it, fine. He could work with that if he had to. He could grip onto the numbed nothing and get this shit done before he wasn't able to anymore. 

_(God, what would happen if he dared to fall asleep?)_

Re-wrapping his hands was a simple enough task, but he paused on his right when he was about to pull off the end and tear the roll. He contemplated it for a second before he pulled it up higher, slowly wrapping the entirety of his arm in a mockery of his old sleeve. He tore the end off at the base of his shoulder, pressed it down carefully to keep it level. When he flexed his hand, then his arm, it felt a bit like wearing a particularly tight shirt, and it pulled him down to earth like a stronger tether. Good. He could work with that too. 

With that over and done with, he pressed his back against the corner where the base of his bed met the wall, cradling his arms against his chest. His head fell back a bit too hard, thumped against the stone just a bit too hard, but he barely registered it. The ache was a quiet, radiating thing, and it was barely enough to even make him blink. His heart, although past the point of rapid shutter beats and thundering tremors, still felt like it was permanently squeezed too tight to breathe. It was like a physical weight had been plopped down without regard, only barely giving enough leeway for a bit of air to slip down his lungs. 

When he exhaled it shook, every other sound dipping below the status quo and distorting it until it sounded like a sob, even though he couldn't quite bring himself to cry. If anything his eyes stung from the absence of tears, open for too long with infrequent blinks that dried out his vision until it blurred. He dug his fingers into the base of his skull, gripped at the hair there as he curled in on himself. With his vision too blurred to properly see, but far too dry to shed tears, the ground below turned to a vague smear, like something particularly cloudy had gotten into his eye, wads of wool that wouldn't vanish. 

_"Fuck,"_ he choked out, sound strangled in his throat, "what the _fuck."_

Everything hurt, and not even in a way he could _manage._ It hurt like a series of useless bee stings, pricking at his skin and sending poison down his veins until he couldn't feel his fingertips. It hurt like the fucking buzzing did, emptied out his chest like it had carved a hole where his heart should be just to grip it with steel. 

_He was so fucking stupid._

He knew he should have built the fence — he'd planned on it, even. That had _been_ the plan for the rest of the day; right before he'd done the worst possible thing he could do and rushed out without supplies or proper preparations, that is. He was supposed to pull up and dig down and build a final wall around their cave for safety, something that would let them fire at the creepers from above. But no, he didn't do any of that. He just had to storm off, had to take a walk right before sundown like he didn't know the risks that came with the darkness it brought with it. 

No. No, that wasn't right. He knew. He knew damn well how dangerous it could be, especially that close to the river. He knew what that meant; the disregard, the flippant. The recklessness. 

The realization stung like an ineffective slap to the face, as equally confusing as it was painful. He thought he'd left that behind with the echoes of the old kid, the old boy who stood in front of tyrants with blood smeared against his palms. The reckless behavior, the maddened screams — it all dwelled in the furthest of his memories, a silhouette tangled up in crimson and smeared with soot from an explosion that taunted his every waking breath. It had been a long, long time since Tommy had done anything reckless at all. The pinning terror of loss had strangled that from him, tore it away and crushed it between unforgiving hands. A mere button press away, the trigger for a loss so great that it had numbed his nerves to anything else. 

Even more terrifyingly, he realized suddenly, was the fact that he didn't know why he'd done it. Before, far before, it had always been purposeful, no matter what anyone around him seemed to think. Everything he'd done had a reason behind it, even if the reason was absolutely irrelevant — always for L'Manburg, always for his friends, always for his home. Always always always. 

But Tommy didn't have that now. He didn't have any of that. He'd lost it all, everything he'd fought so hard to protect. And yet, still, he'd been reckless. He'd purposefully neglected the things that would protect him, the things that were gifted to him by the one thing — the one _person_ — he had left. He'd failed _again,_ had nearly gotten himself killed despite the hours upon hours that Technoblade poured into his training. Despite the fact that the pig-man was risking his life in the nether, toiling away to get potions only Tommy ever fucking used. 

And Tommy was terrified, because he didn't know what that meant. What that said about him. It had to be _something,_ right? Tommy was terrified, right up until he wasn't. Right up until the anxiety melted into the background of a constantly buzzing nothingness, because yes, he was afraid. Yes, he was upset. Yes, he wanted to do _anything else._

But more than that, more than anything else...

Tommy was exhausted. 

+

"… holy _shit."_

Minutes, hours, whatever, they all passed in a blink and an eternity. Tommy still felt like he was in a haze, walking through a fog that numbed his extremities with every vacant movement, a wave that had surrounded him the moment his muscles began to relax for real. Normally, he'd try to grip reality — try to choke down the buzzing hurt and force himself to straighten out his shoulders, if nothing else than just to meet Schlatt's eyes. It was a point of pride; a principle, an announcement of… _something._

He couldn't give less of a shit about that now. He just needed to get this done so he could… _not_ sleep. Anything but sleep. It was an accomplishment in itself that he'd remembered at all, and even now he hadn't dared chance a glance at the window to check the time. His own stomach ached, and that alone was enough of a reference. Even so, it changed nothing about how he felt though the wall — he wanted to be anywhere but here. 

Tommy didn't want to meet Schlatt's eyes; didn't want to see whatever expression was pulled over his face. He wanted to lie down, but he didn't want to sleep. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't make a sound, and oh, wasn't that painfully familiar? Tommy wanted to be upset; at some level surely he had to be, even if he couldn't quite feel it. But the wrath of the gods became so feeble when it faced the eternity of the earth, faded even further to wisps with the final prayers of the devoted, and the remaining embers couldn't burn without fuel. 

_God. He missed Technoblade._

"Tommy? Kid?" 

Blinking felt like it took an age, and he was surprised he managed to fully make out what Schlatt was saying at all. The man had been so loud _before;_ near suffocating with every gasping breath that he took before his next grand show. By comparison the man spoke so quietly now, like he was trying not to disturb the sleeping figures carved of marble and stone. Tommy related to that, probably. He wasn't certain. 

Schlatt was looking at him with an unreadable but decently strained expression, one hand braced against the bars. Hasty hands pushed a bit of too-long hair from the ram-horned man's face as he squinted, perhaps disbelieving.

 _No,_ Tommy corrected uselessly, an audience of one that barely listened at all; _not disbelieving. Disturbed._

"What the fuck happened to your arm?" 

Tommy didn't really understand what was so wrong with it — the bandages almost matched the other side, and it wasn't like they were bloody or dirty or anything. Not to mention that it was probably the driest part of him right now, considering that he was half certain his jeans would be soaked in river water forever, shackles tied to his ankles to drag him down to the sand. 

Schlatt's mouth was still moving. Tommy forced himself to tune back in, only barely resisting the urge to hit his side like he would an old malfunctioning radio. 

"... christ kid, can you even hear me? Come on, this is creepy shit. At least _blink."_

Schlatt's voice rose a bit in pitch with his smile, something like a chuckle tacked on to the end of his sentence. A joke, Tommy realized. He didn't feel like laughing, and faintly, he was certain Schlatt didn't either. 

"You aren't funny," he echoed, a beat too late.

The creases in Schlatt's brow deepened further, darkened with the shadows borne of flickering flames. The dark lines that the iron bars dragged across his skin split his face in pieces, like a mask cracking right down the eyeline. Like the streaks of gray that spread down from his eyes, age old tracks that mimicked tears. 

They stared at one another for a long time. Stared silently and breathed far too loud, blinking out of time with the billow of everlasting flames. Slowly, Tommy's aching right hand tightened against the torch. He reached into his bag with his left as he slowly set it into the sconce, bandaged appendage falling uselessly back at his side. 

A bottle of ice cold water. A lukewarm potato with foil too hot to touch — a dichotomy Tommy could only barely feel, brandished without a hint of familiarity. He swore that he could hear his joints creak when he approached, like the water had soaked in too much and turned him to caked on rust. Schlatt didn't back up this time, but he didn't move a muscle until Tommy had moved clear. Even then he took an age to reach for his rations, yellow locked solidly on flickering blue.

"..."

Tommy waited. There were only two combinations for this sort of thing, really. The pop of a cork and the crinkle of foil, or the latter swapping place with the former. Ruts driven into the dirt by feet that were dragged against the soil, a routine that flattened the earth until the grooves formed a drain. 

The crinkle of foil and…

.

.

.

_… absence._

Tommy opened his eyes, or perhaps he simply tuned back in. Either way, his awareness came in fading spades, sparks that split off the edges of a torchlight. The foil had been unwrapped and the bottle had been taken, but the cork remained untouched. The water remained unopened, set against the headboard of the man's bed and sandwiched between the pillow and the wood. Schlatt sunk heavily onto the bed and bit down on his fare. Another bite. Another. Through it all, his gaze did not shift toward the bottle. He ignored it like it was never there, like the chill of it wasn't dripping down in rivulets and fading to room temperature.

 _Drink it already,_ Tommy thought — said? He didn't know — _Drink it, so he could…_

The train of thought stuttered on it's tracks, skidding to a slow and painful stop. 

_So he could what? Leave? Not sleep? Pace aimlessly around in hopes of lasting until sunrise?_ What would he do? _What was his plan?_

Exhaustion weighed down his bones like only the relative of lost adrenaline could, but the very idea of crashing to sleep brought a surge of something that faded far too quickly — made his breath hitch with something not unlike panic before it was suffocated to silence again. His right hand rose unbidden and clutched at the front of his shirt, digging shaky fingers into the dirty fabric. 

_Don't drink it. Drink it. Don't. He had to go, but he wasn't sure if he..._

The exhale that escaped him felt like it was taking his balance with it, and he wobbled unsteadily on his feet, stumbled back, and eventually hit the stone wall again. Yellow flickered up for half a beat before it was gone again — a plausible illusion — and the bottle remained where it was, untouched and unaddressed. Seemingly forgotten. 

Tommy couldn't leave without the bottle — he couldn't leave glass in Schlatt's hands, too easy to shatter or shape. He didn't know if he was relieved; the choice had been taken from him by force, and it should have been frightening. It _should_ have. But not many things tended to be what they should these days. Apparently, that applied to far more than Schlatt himself. 

Tommy sunk down slowly — or at least he figured that he did. Either way he ended up on the ground, knees pulled to his chest, eyes locked on a silhouette that looked more like a hunched shadow than a man that worked slowly through his meal, head bent down with his elbows propped up on his knees. It took him an age to finally crumple up the foil in his fingers, even longer to toss it aimlessly at the openings in the bars. It sailed through in an even, controlled arc, and landed with a near silent _clink_ somewhere to Tommy's left. He figured that now, _now_ was the end of whatever it was. Now was when Schlatt would chug down the water and send Tommy on his way, right back up to the top where he would drown in his own incompetence. 

Instead? 

"Your arm is fucked up," Schlatt said, not moving from his predisposed position; "what happened?" 

It was a question, but Tommy really wasn't sure if Schlatt expected an answer. Unlike Technoblade, the silence that stretched over their heads was a heavy one, strained and thick and just a hair too unstable to breathe through. Even still, something faint urged him to answer — the wispy echoes of something old and not-quite spiteful. 

_Answer._

"... 's a creeper." 

Tommy's mumble sounded horrifically flat, even to him, but he couldn't muster up the energy to care. He still felt all hollowed out, like scraped off tinder from tree bark, dry grass in a field of static. Like he could be set aflame in mere moments if he wasn't careful — if he wasn't stagnant. 

Schlatt whistled out something that was almost a breath, almost a song. 

"Shit." 

Yeah. That summed it up pretty well. 

Tommy propped his chin up on his knees, stared with eyes that kept attempting to unfocus. His throat felt terribly dry, and he had to keep swallowing to remind himself that he could breathe. 

.

.

.

_TING!_

_Tingtingting!_

The way Tommy jolted was nearly violent, an electric current as he flinched at the sudden eruption of noise. Schlatt, now closer to the bars, was running the edge of the bottle against them like an old metal cup seeking to make music. 

"You aren't falling asleep on me, are you?" 

Schlatt's voice was louder still than the sound, almost physically sharp at the edges, cracked like a whip. More than enough to prick at Tommy's skin and drag him back from the whirlwind that whistled just outside his skull. He squinted, and Schlatt tapped his fingers against the glass bottle Tommy thought he was bound to ignore. 

"Shut up," he grumbled after a minute. He paused, cleared his throat. He might have intended to speak, but the words caught and struggled, and he was at a deficit to find them. The more he tried, the further they slipped into the dark. 

_Ting!_

_Tingtingting!_

As irritating as it probably should have been, Tommy wasn't certain he didn't prefer the almost musical clatter to the silence. His indecision clashed with the fact that it was enough to drown out the dredges of static, so he bit his lip instead. 

_Ting!_

_Ting!_

Tommy was many, many things — different, pained, _stupid, —_ but he was not, decisively, blind. 

Schlatt was very, very unlike Technoblade. His actions and words were more extreme, more like an electric shock than anything else, and they were caked in layers upon layers that Tommy on a _good_ day wouldn't dare try and decode. But even with that being said, Tommy felt a bit of the too-familiar static fade as Schlatt dug in his worn out heels and tapped glass repeatedly against metal in disjointed rhythm. Unavoidable noises, gestures, words; things that snagged Tommy's fleeting attention and fanned a fading flame until he could retaliate with something of his own. The exhaustion, omnipresent and lingering, tugged insistently on his bones, but something _else_ pulled him away. 

It was a moment that sent something else crumbling to the floor, something just a hair shy of honesty that both of them turned a mutually blind eye to. 

But as all things did — as all things do — the prickle of electricity slowly fizzled to quiet. A buzz instead of a shock, a mumble instead of a curse. The pressure of clashing blades giving way to ducks and dodges, then to whittled blows against worn out shields. 

"He never shut up about you, you know. _Oh, I wonder how Tommy's doing, I miss Tommy, blah blah blah."_

Schlatt spoke with the strangest intonation, even compared to recent memories, and that wasn't counting the terrible impression of an accent that he slathered on to his words like peanut butter. It almost sounded forcefully casual, near dry as it dragged against the stone. Tommy swallowed around a choked off sound, not quite a laugh. Curiosity or pain — he didn't know which forced him to silence. Perhaps he was just late, just slow. Schlatt continued, and Tommy, for better or for worse, let him. 

"He was always so concerned. And you know Tubbo; kid can't lie to save his own skin." 

Something struck him in that moment. Something quiet and sad, a realization drenched in old grief and older pain. 

Schlatt's tone was about as brittle — _brittle,_ that was the word — as Tommy felt, like one quick tap would send cracks criss-crossing around the edges. Tommy was careful not to breathe too loudly, not to move a muscle as the ram-horned man spoke to open air. 

"But he was always so focused. It made him pretty good and pretty bad at his job, but whatever. Passion's good in any worker, really. Kid would've gone real far." 

_Would’ve._

Yellow, suddenly shifting. Suddenly piercing. Tommy couldn't bear to look. Not when he suddenly felt like someone had physically squeezed his lungs, damn near reached up to crush his heart. 

When he finally looked up at Schlatt properly; when he pulled his head up from his arms, that sharp gaze wasn't pointed at him at all. Schlatt's expression was carefully careless as he stared at the wall, level enough that Tommy almost wondered if it had been his mistake. 

(He knew it hadn't been. Schlatt did a lot of things, but he sure as hell didn't misspeak.) 

For the first time in ages, Tommy could almost hear what he would have said in reply to that, a million years ago. He could see his own puffed out chest, his inflated smile and his gloating laughter. He would have been pleased, then. Proud of his best friend. 

He didn't know what it was now. What he was. 

"He always picks up the best of everyone around him," Tommy said, instead of the thoughts that lingered like acid. The creeping surge of his own honesty burned his skin and stung his eyes. He blinked hard, rubbed at his face with his bandaged palms and didn't address the blur that made his vision swim. 

Schlatt, for his part, shifted somewhat, tilted his head back until his eyes were level with the blank expanse of the ceiling. The silence, unbidden and heaviest at the edges, rippled overhead, threatening to solidify again. 

"..."

"..."

Tommy swallowed. Inhaled. Dug in his heels and ignored the squelch of his socks. He blew out a breath like he was trying to rid his lungs of nicotine, even though he'd never smoked in his life. He spoke with an approximation of force, trailed off into something a bit too raw, even as his lips tugged into a rueful echo of a smile. He reached for something simple, something a little less… 

"You're a dick, you know that right?"

This time, when Schlatt's smirk returned, it looked a little less like the plastic that had been drawn over an old mask. Tommy relaxed a little, expected some kind of sharp retort. For a moment, from the way Schlatt’s smile tugged up, he was certain he’d get it. 

And then.

_“Yeah.”_

A single word, spoken through a smile that suddenly bled more honesty than Tommy was prepared to face. A crack in the portal, a sliver of something unknown. From the abrupt shift in Schlatt’s expression, Tommy had a sudden feeling that the other man hadn’t quite meant to say that part out loud. Not like that. Not with the weight that it held, the scalding hot burn that threatened to scorch. 

Tommy pondered for a split second — a moment of _something._ An unnecessary dismissal, a period of long, drawn out silences. 

_An out._

He swallowed. 

“Well, at least you’re self aware," Tommy snorted. It was forced, but with a little more energy behind it as he spat half a dry chuckle. The ram-horned man echoed the sound, his own laugh a brittle bark that bounced off the pristine walls, steadily gaining strength.

"Yeah, well. Right back 'atcha pal." Schlatt's chuckles were dry and coarse, grit pressed into clay that tore sandpaper to shreds. Neither of them addressed the way Schlatt’s knuckles slowly returned to normal, back from the strained white where he'd clutched the glass. Neither of them addressed the way his shoulders slumped. 

Eventually, Schlatt ended up popping the cork off; he ended up chugging the water down. But he didn't move to stand, didn't set it on the ledge and wave Tommy off on his way. Instead he sneered, flicked a pebble at his shoe and tapped now-empty glass against stone, not quite hard enough to break, like an alarm bell that would snap Tommy's sagging head back up. Occasionally, sparks would build up high enough to spit out another curse — another snag, another vague snort. He couldn't leave without the glass bottle that Schlatt held in his hands. So for the first time since the dungeon was built, Tommy stayed long after the meal itself had come and gone. 

It wasn't peace, no. 

But, for that one moment, an agreement was enough. Eventually, it seemed, even Schlatt’s infamous blabbering could be cut down by solitude. As if to punctuate the shift, Tommy swore he felt a physical wave — almost like the ground itself jerked beneath his feet in the wake of some kind of magic. 

_Wait._

He looked just in time to watch as Schlatt’s body suddenly froze. Yellow eyes darted up to the ceiling, too perfectly timed to be a coincidence. That feeling only solidified into surety as the ram-horned man slowly turned to look at him. 

Now, there was something about the universe that Tommy, in various forms, had come to accept. Disappointment could follow grand dreams, the world could and would cave in with or without him. Battles hard fought did not always bring the hero's end. Stability fought tooth and nail not to be trapped, blew whirlwinds with each flap of its wings to struggle against the pins of the desperate. 

And nothing — _nothing_ — ever happened the way he thought they would. 

The ground thrummed with a second shockwave of energy that silenced him and Schlatt both, froze them in place like some kind of spell. Schlatt's eyes widened as Tommy's squeezed shut, but the terror was a passing phase, because Tommy had only heard that sound, felt that wave of magic, once in recent memory. He had only felt the rip of space split in two on one, agonizing occasion, and his heart stopped for the second time in as many hours, soared so suddenly he was certain it would fly out like a trapped bird from his chest. 

His body moved on it's own, threw itself upward and bolted blindly toward the steps. In his haste, he left the torch behind in the sconce, nearly slipped on the puddles of water his clothes had left as he'd trekked down hours ago. He didn't care. He barely registered it, and for an entirely new reason now. 

Because Tommy knew that wave. He'd burned it into his brain like a scalding brand. 

He knew the magic of a nether portal.

\-----

+

\-----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genuine question for all of my readers, and I do mean it when I say I'm asking honestly: 
> 
> How do you feel about the fic? I struggle often with trying to make sure the pacing is done well to avoid breaking immersion, but I can only do so much, haha. Also, how are we feeling about Technoblade, eh? I don't know if its just me (and poor Tommy,) but I've missed writing for the sleepy pig-man. 
> 
> Detailed Summary: 
> 
> Tommy has a short flashback that merges with reality, sending him through an old breakfast memory from before L'Manburg was even established. After breaking free of that memory, he finds he was knocked unconscious and into the river by the blast, and must run back in the dark since the sun has set. He does so quickly, running off adrenaline, in hopes of avoiding more dangerous mobs.
> 
> When he returns, he uses the remainder of his shocked energy to clean, dress, and heal his wounds. After an undetermined amount of time, he heads slowly down to feed Schlatt again, having regressed a bit back to near silence. The latter man sees his sorry state and keeps him down in the makeshift dungeon by not immediately giving up a glass bottle, something Tommy cannot leave him with, instead of allowing Tommy to stew in his turmoiling thoughts. This results in a long and strangely honest period of time, although words are few and far between. 
> 
> And then they hear the activation of the nether portal.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through the years upon tears that Tommy had lived, he'd heard many rumors and sayings that sounded like nonsense at best, bullshit at worst. Once, 'Technoblade Never Dies" had been one of them. He wasn't sure when anymore, but he sure as hell knew that it wasn't now. 
> 
> Or
> 
> Technoblade finally returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I get a 70,000 words pog?????? 
> 
> Jesus, this fic is growing to be longer than I ever imagined. I'm sure I've already said that, but all the same it doesn't stop it from being true. The fact that this could very well end up being one of those 100k word fics is insane. 
> 
> The time has come at last! I know plenty of you have been patiently awaiting Technoblade's return — Tommy most of all — so I hope this lives up to your expectations. I've definitely missed writing for our tired pig man, he's really such a grounding breath of fresh air for me as a writer. This may be a bit closer to emotional relief and filler than the prior chapters, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.
> 
> Anyway, I won't delay you any longer, that's enough of my idle prattle, I have to stop before this author’s note takes up too much space. As always, comments, kudos, and feedback of any kind truly push me to work hard on the next chapters! 
> 
> Please enjoy <3

_Hope, they said — although Tommy never really knew who 'they' were supposed to be — was a thing with feathers. Tommy vehemently disagreed._

_Hope did not flutter or fly, did not shed its down and twirl in the air like elegance pulled manifest. Hope was not a lighthearted creature, naivë and gentle and soft like the embrace of a blanket._

_Hope was visceral. Hope was the burning agony of sweat and vigor, the hiss of bombs at your feet and the whisper of old songs under cover. Hope was vicious and hope was cruel, it drove men to the brink of madness and pulled them over as it vanished below, leaving them limp and helpless to do anything but follow. Hope was the dirt that smeared bloodied faces, stung exhausted fingers._

_Hope, Tommy thought as Wilbur reached out for Dream's hand, was a quiet, sadistic thing. Something that burned your palms and reddened your skin. Hope was passion, the blazing core of a nation that bulldozed through terror and crushed fear to dust for better or for worse, with no regard for what may get caught in its path._

_But he would try and take it back anyway. Because that was the essence of being free._

\-----

+

\-----

Tommy had never really considered himself to be a cautious person, even after the worst day of his life had come and… Well. Not quite gone. The images haunted him like a bloodied veil, lingering over his eyes with shadows of old, now tainted memories. 

The point was, he wasn't ever cautious. Paranoid, perhaps. Scared, always. But he was not naturally cautious. Not without putting in the conscious effort to be — not without Technoblade's guiding voice murmuring for him to take a breath, to stop and think. 

So when he bolted up the stairs and slammed the doors open, he ran for the mines with a reckless disregard for his own safety for the second time in the day. So blinded was he by the drumbeat of his own emotions that he didn't pause for even a second — didn't wonder if that sound could be anything or anyone but Technoblade. He rounded the corner, skidded to an almost painful stop against the stone, and _looked._

A glimmering set of purple armour. 

A heavy leather bag, protected by a shield.

A flash of brilliant, _shocking_ pink. 

Tommy felt like his grin would split his face in two. 

Prior to everything, perhaps Tommy would have attempted to play it mellow. He would have choked back his glee and settled back on his heels, crossed his arms and gave a smirk instead of a smile, a nod instead of a hug. 

If Tommy had learned anything at all, it was that pretending was a waste of time. 

He launched himself forward like a bottle rocket, threw his arms around Technoblade's body with as much strength as he could supply. The pink haired man let out a grunt and stumbled back, armour clanging loudly against the stone floor as he attempted to steady himself against the onslaught. After a moment, he failed, and they both went crashing loudly to the floor. Tommy didn't care. 

_"Urph —"_

_"Techno!"_

The relief that bled into his voice would have been pathetic, once. Something he would have stifled. He didn't bother now — he _was_ relieved. He was so, so fucking glad Technoblade was back, and alive. The aforementioned man seemed a little taken off guard, to say the very least. He was stiff as a board, arms held awkwardly above Tommy's body like he was made of stone, and his breath was slightly shaky from what Tommy could only assume was adrenaline. Slowly though, Techno's arm fell to the side, and he patted Tommy gently — if not incredibly stiffly — on the back. 

"... I'm guessin' you missed me?" Techno said, as close to a chuckle as he ever got, and Tommy had to take a moment to fight back the sting of his traitorous eyes lest he cry just because of hearing that familiar drawl. 

He swallowed hard and nodded his head furiously, more honest than he perhaps should have been. The pats slowed until Technoblade rested his hand in the middle of Tommy's back, and the weight was enough to ground him back in reality again. 

"I'm sorry. It ended up takin' longer than I thought it would." Techno spoke from above him, voice strained, and Tommy couldn't blame him. He was probably exhausted — there was no real safe space to sleep in the nether, and beds had a horrific habit of exploding for one reason or another.

"I'm just glad you're back, big man." 

The words shook as they struggled their way free of his throat, but they were dripping with honesty and relief and every pent up terrified emotion that haunted him for the past few days. Techno didn't laugh, but the rumble that emitted above him from the armour was damn near close to it. 

"Glad to be back, Tommy. But… er. Could you get up? You're close to crushin' the bag I did all this for." 

Tommy's eyes shot open, and he realised with a start that yes, he almost was. The leather bag was only just out of his range, and had he moved even an inch, he likely would have crushed some of the netherwart — assumedly — inside. He pulled back and rolled off, and Techno let him, pulling back his arm with a huff. When he was freed, the pig-man ran a combat-gloved hand through his sweaty hair, pulled it slowly over his pale face. And he _was_ pale, face shimmering with sweat and covered in a decent layer of soot. 

"Jesus, big man, what happened in there?" 

Techno pulled the strap of his bag more securely over his shoulder, but after a moment seemed to think better of it. He unhooked it and held it out to Tommy with one hand in lieu of answering.

"Do me a favor and take these upstairs, huh? I'll tell you all about it, but first, I'm goin' to make sure nothin' else comes through the portal." 

Techno jabbed a thumb toward the shimmering purple rift, still intermittently spitting out violet sparks. Tommy nodded slowly, reached out with hesitant hands and took the offered bag. Then, very promptly, he nearly dropped it, only just managing to snatch it back and regain his bearings. 

Jesus, the bag was _heavy._ Incredibly heavy, in fact. It felt not unlike the bagfulls of obsidian that they'd needed to build the portal in the first place, like it was lined with rocks and metal instead of leather. But if Technoblade could trudge through the entire fucking nether with the bag, heavy armour, _and_ weapons, Tommy could at least tote it upstairs. Even if he was embarrassingly reluctant to allow Technoblade to leave his sight. He stumbled up from the mine and set the bag heavily on top of their crafting table, careful not to allow any of the contents to spill out. Once it was stable, he decided to take a moment and find out what the hell weighed _so much._ He knew the bags held more than it seemed — yet another aspect of their magic — but he had yet to feel something this absurd. 

As soon as he looked, his eyes blew wide. 

Gold ingots. Bunches upon bunches of netherwart and what looked to be bags of soul sand. A group of small vials, each one filled with what looked to be a solid chunk of pearlescent material, each one perfectly shaped like a teardrop. A smaller group of larger jars, filled with a glowing powder that looked like it was still somehow on fire, even though it was cool to the touch. And, if all that wasn't enough, Tommy was more than half certain that the chunks of metal at the bottom were _more_ netherite, ready to be smelted and spread across diamond gear. 

_It was like a fucking nether treasure trove._

Gaping at it was probably the fairest response he could offer. Technoblade was known for his combat abilities, but he was also well renowned for his tenacity when he decided to dedicate himself to a particular task. There were rumors of a strange war, waged for once without violence, that had been a testament to that trait. Tommy had trusted in those abilities — trusted in _Technoblade —_ but he had never dreamed the haul would be as extensive as _this._

He had no idea how long he spent gawking at the haul, but it was long enough for him to eventually hear the steady _clang, clang, clang_ of netherite and leather meeting stone. That in itself was abnormal, since Techno usually made such a point out of his silence even in armour, but Tommy could hardly blame him. The man had to know he was safe here, so it really made no sense to act like he was behind enemy lines when he was so exhausted. Tommy's point was further confirmed when Techno emerged from the mine, one hand set heavily against the wall and a dry half-smile on his face. 

"Lookin' at the spoils?" Techno asked absently, blowing a bit of air out heavy from his lungs. The pig-man ran his hand over his too-pale face yet again, exhaustion carving lines into his expression. Even so, he looked decently victorious, which Tommy deemed completely fair. 

"Techno, this is _crazy,"_ Tommy said, nearly breathless. A laugh tacked itself on the end of his sentence, disbelieving as he picked up one of the vials. The teardrop rattled around inside when he held it up to the torchlight, beaming as if Techno wasn't familiar with it already. For the moment, the looming pain and buzzing quiet vanished almost entirely, blending into the background and hidden in the cast shadows. 

Ghast tears were incredibly hard to get — but before they were powdered, even Tommy could admit that they were beautiful. On some occasions, people who managed to discover them — and it was often a discovery, not a battle trophy — were known to keep them as gemstones if they lacked the ability to brew proper potions. They were supposed to be lucky, a charm that would ward off mobs at night. Tommy wasn't certain how much of that he believed, but it didn't matter. Techno could brew potions just fine, and these were definitely _not_ rumors, although some of them felt vaguely frightening. 

_(Black streaks, grey wisps, enveloped eyes, grasping in the light like he couldn't see a thing. Yellow to black, ashes to ashes. A faint, thrumming, trace of victory._ Despite himself, Tommy couldn’t quite repress his shudder at the memory — it hadn’t been scary at the time, but now...)

"I managed to snag some blaze powder," Techno said as he sat heavily on the stone bench, "well, blaze rods, if we're gettin' technical, but I powdered 'em to save space." 

_Yeah,_ Tommy thought with a stifled, disbelieving chuckle, dragged helpfully back to earth as he continued; _to save space for all the other insane shit he'd gathered, maybe._ He didn't speak aloud though — it seemed Techno, for once, had that covered. The aforementioned pig-man pointed a gloved hand vaguely at the bag, although it dropped back to his side decently quickly. 

"There should be a decent amount of gold in there to add to the rest, and I managed gettin' enough netherite to make you a full set of armour sometime soon, plus some extra." 

Techno just kept going, didn't he? Even as occupied by the findings as he was, Tommy found it nigh impossible not to be blown away by the sheer amount of progress the pig-man had made. That surely explained why he'd taken longer than previously thought — even before everything, Tommy probably wouldn't have been able to get half of this on his own in that time, maybe not even a third considering his old flippant attitude and endless ambition for everything but tedious tasks. 

But, after a rather extended period spent merely staring at the spoils, Tommy actually snapped himself from his own train of thought as he spotted movement in his peripherals. Techno had bent forward a bit, lent heavily forward with his elbows braced against his knees. He set the newest discovery — what seemed like a few bottles of fucking _glowstone_ — to the side, glee taking a backseat to concern. Techno really did look exhausted, more so than Tommy had first realized. His face was even a little flushed from the abrupt temperature change between the nether and the overworld, which was fair, but his hair fell in slick strands and his crown was crooked, placed apparently hastily instead of his helmet. When he wiped at his face, it only really managed to smear the soot. 

"Techno?" 

The pig-man looked up. Once he caught a glimpse of Tommy's expression, he waved him away in typical form. 

"It's been a really long few days, and I haven't really slept" Techno grumbled, "gimme a minute to breathe, alright?" 

Tommy backed up a little, apologetic. He knew that the nether — if wild — was a hell of a trip. Most people went in groups for that exact reason, to take watch and let one another rest. It was too bad then, Tommy thought distantly bitterly to himself, that Techno was stuck with the _one person_ who couldn't have gone and — 

"Why are your clothes soaked, Tommy?" 

It was almost strange, the ease with which Techno slid back into his routine. The natural edge that came with monotone words, urging and steady and everything that his own racing thoughts were not. Even stranger still was the man's uncanny ability to detect abnormalities, even if it came at the occasional cost of emotional defense. 

And yet, although the true source of the issue stared him straight in the face, Techno did not ask Tommy directly what Tommy dreaded that he would. Tommy was waiting for a direct question about his arm, about his bandages. His new, pink scars. And don't get him wrong, Techno was looking vaguely at his bandaged arm now, brow creased and expression blank, but he didn't push a direct question into Tommy's lap. If anything though, that probably meant he had a decent idea already, whether or not Tommy chose to elaborate. 

But it was still a choice. With Techno, it was always a choice. 

Tommy swallowed, briefly considered brushing it off, even. If he did, he knew Techno wouldn't ask again. But then he remembered who he _had_ told — he remembered that Schlatt knew, and there was no way in hell he was letting Techno find out secondhand. 

So, he gritted his teeth, sighed, and bit the bullet, trying not to break his teeth. 

"A creeper. It was a creeper, down by the river." 

Techno didn't exactly tense, and he didn't show any aggression or outward disapproval, but Tommy felt the silence that followed like a grindstone taken to his ribcage. He forced a weak chuckle he didn't really feel, gestured toward his arm and turned away in an effort to avoid eye contact. 

"It's not like it was too bad," he added hastily, words stumbling over one another, clumsy with disuse; "I — I mean, it was stupid. I made — it was a stupid mistake, I shouldn't have —." 

"Tommy." 

He flinched. That was the second time Techno had said his name in as many sentences, and he'd only just gotten back. 

"... yeah, big man?" 

Techno pressed the pads of his gloved fingertips together in a sort of triangle, tapping his index fingers against one another in a steady rhythm. 

"You drank a potion?" 

"... yes. A regular one, not — not the regeneration one. I didn't need to use that one, y'know." 

He tried for a smile, but even the gently warm glow of the bottles and vials beside him were not quite enough to banish the slight chill of his still dampened clothes. 

"You could have," Techno said, "it might scar without it. The burns." 

"Yeah, I… I know." 

None of Tommy's previous injuries had been bad enough to scar, but something that close — even on such a small scale — was bound to leave a mark, even if it faded some in the coming years. 

The conversation trailed off for a minute, as Techno seemingly contemplated something. Tommy shifted a little where he stood, eyes flicking back and forth between Technoblade and the supplies he'd returned with. With what he had now, Tommy probably could have afforded to drink the potion — but he hadn't known when Techno would return, and he was hesitant to touch the single brewing stand the man brought with him. He closed his eyes, readied himself to apologize, although what for he didn't know. His own incompetence, maybe —

"Are you okay?" 

The new question forced the train down another path, staggered the tracks until Tommy could only blink and clutch at his bandages. It had been a while since he'd been asked such a transparent question. 

"... as okay as I can be." 

He opted for honesty. As close to it as he could manage. That was the way things operated with Technoblade, after all. And unlike with Schlatt, it felt less like a vulnerability than it felt like confidence. The smile he offered was terribly strained though, tugged awkwardly at his lips before he let it drop. 

Techno stood, not quite abruptly, more than likely dragged down by exhaustion even Tommy was likely unfamiliar with. He closed the gap between them until he was close enough to reach, and he set his hand heavily on Tommy's shoulder, intent blurring into quiet seriousness. 

"You did good, Tommy." 

It was so painfully easy to rattle him, he'd come to realize. So agonizingly simple to topple his remaining towers if you just knew where to aim. And that, unlike everything else, was hardly new. Even before, before everything, he had always been so fucking transparent. It was how Wilbur had succeeded — how Dream had ruined it all. How he'd been blinded by hope instead of rationale, rendered stupid and useless before the unyeilding force of those in power. 

To the contrary, Techno's words were not quite enough to soothe Tommy's strain. Nor the rattle of his bones, and certainly not the ache that infected every stolen breath. But it was just enough to kick at the final stick, sharp as Techno's fighting style; just enough force to snap the strings of Tommy's quietly forced composure. He realized it a second too late, just how close to the brink he truly was. A buildup of pressure, a lantern burning too bright. 

His vision swam and blurred, merged the streaks of vibrant purple and red into stone until everything looked vaguely blotchy. The tears fell before he could stifle them, dripping like acid and falling heavy on his skin, and still, he made not a single sound. 

He was crying properly before he could even really process it, more abruptly than he would have imagined. A faucet, turned from off to high in a millisecond. It was to the surprise of both the pig-man and himself apparently — considering how abruptly stiff he became before he relaxed — but in typical fashion Techno said nothing, quiet as Tommy silently sobbed without a coherent point as it all burst through the dam. Another blink, another sob, and both of Techno's hands were holding him up by his shoulders, a pillar of support that felt like the only thing keeping him upright. 

Had he the presence of mind to be ashamed, maybe Tommy would have pulled himself back — the whole point was to prove that despite his mistakes, despite his errors, hell, despite _him,_ he could still take care of things. That Technoblade didn't need to worry. 

Only… now that Tommy could just barely manage to see — ironic, considering that everything looked like a poorly focused picture — his brain felt like he'd kicked out a door to let all the suffocating smoke pour out of him in billowing droves. He wasn't okay — he hadn't been ready, he wasn't the kid who would lie and say that he was. 

But he'd made it. Despite his useless failures, despite the painful agony, despite, _despite, despite._

Techno had made it, and so had he, and he felt like it was fucking fair to be relieved, even if he wasn't sure if that was the emotion that spilled from him like an overflowing cup. 

Suddenly, he was tugged forward on shaking knees, unable to resist even if he wanted to. He was pulled heavy into Techno’s chest, pressed against an audible pulse and the slightly uneven rhythm of the other man’s breaths. Techno muttered something about a change of clothes — both for him and for Tommy. Had he the energy, he might have even laughed at the near trademarked _Techno-ness_ of the nonsequitur. As it was, Tommy only stuttered and sobbed, and Technoblade held him steady, braced against the stone of the bench. 

Tommy squeezed his eyes shut, and he _cried._

+

For the first time in nearly three full days, when Tommy woke up from a dreamless sleep, Technoblade was present. If he was honest he didn't even really remember falling asleep, but the blankets were pulled snugly around his body in an effort to shield him slightly from the cold. Surprisingly, he didn't feel cold at all — it didn't even seem like his clothes were still damp. 

Even more surprisingly, whilst Technoblade was blessedly in his usual spot, the man was leaning heavily against the wall _,_ hair still slightly wet and dripping into the fur of his clock's collar. Considering the chill, Tommy wasn't surprised that he was still wearing his combat gloves, or that said cloak was pulled taut against his neck enough to nearly bury him in the fur. Save for his face, Techno was essentially entirely wrapped up in multiple heavy layers. 

What he _was_ baffled by, though, was the fact that Technoblade was asleep at _all._

It was an incredibly rare thing for Tommy to ever be up before he was — and Tommy felt yet another sharp pang of guilt. Techno had always sported a pair of deep, purple circles under his eyes that even Tommy couldn't have ever competed with, but the man looked especially exhausted now, with his crown crooked and body limp against the stone. It couldn't be particularly comfortable either, what with how he was still propped up with his fingertips grazing the hilt of his axe, almost enough to resemble cradling his ribs. Tommy pursed his lips, brow creased with emotion as he contemplated what he should do. 

Any and all previous offers in prior months for Technoblade to take the bed had been declined outright, but surely _now_ the man would at least see the utility of it. Surely this time, Tommy could at least do _something_ to make him comfortable. 

With that decision made, Tommy wriggled his way out of the sheets — and promptly froze where he sat, eyes glued to his sleeves. And he did mean sleeves, plural. 

Where his arms had previously been bandaged and dirty respectively, his ratty old undershirt had been replaced by a long white one, larger with slightly loose sleeves and tight cuffs. A near mirror image of the shirt that Technoblade always wore as his first layer, save for the absence of golden buttons or buckles against the collar and arms, replaced by a smooth metal. Iron, perhaps? 

His pants — the same jeans he was already familiar with — were somehow miraculously dry, and it seemed that even some of the caked on mud had vanished with the water. His bandages on both his hands had been rewrapped; slightly cleaner of a job than he did himself with his adrenaline drunk hands the day before. And when he reached up hesitantly to prod at his shoulder, he felt the pressure of even more bandages that wound up to his neck. 

His eyes flickered to Technoblade, sleeping silently with his own hair dripping wet, dark circles even deeper, face pale with exhaustion. He was cleaner than he had been too — soot absent from his face. It really just made it even more obvious how tired he looked, highlighted what he already knew.   
  
Instead of resting, instead of taking a goddamn _moment_ after his trip, Techno had spent the night doing what he always did. Preparing. Taking care of things. Taking care of Tommy, changing his bandages, even making _food.  
_

Jesus fucking christ, he wanted to say. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut, not at all eager to wake him.

Tommy wanted to move Techno to the bed — but there was absolutely no way he would manage it without waking him. No way in hell. So what could he do? What was left?

To their right, he heard a near silent crackle, low enough that he only barely managed to catch it in the offered silence of the morning's light. Startled, he realized that the furnace was still going — and inside it, a trio of potatoes lay waiting, quiet and patient as the man who had put them there. Still wet hair, still flickering flames. Clean bandages and a cleaner shirt. 

_Well,_ Tommy thought quietly to himself with admittedly false bravado, creeping out from his bed and over to the furnace as silently as he could manage; _he'd fed Schlatt for a few days — what was one more time?_

+

They called him optimistic, once. Not, of course, to the degree that they did his best friend — that they did _Tubbo,_ with his brilliant smiles and ringing laughter — but no one ever told him that he needed to look on the bright side. Tommy was stubborn, right to the very core of his being. Stubborn and loud and determined in ways that even he hadn't understood. Tommy hadn't been that person in a very long time. But the feeling in his chest now, as he peered back before vanishing into the dungeon, door clicking near silently behind him, he was damn close. He only realized that the torch he usually took along with him was missing when his hand closed around open air, nearly enough to set him tumbling off balance. He righted himself quickly though, gritting his teeth in admonishment. 

Because Technoblade was back, and Tommy would be fucking damned if he was going to sit by and refuse to ease a bit of his burden. The sleeves that hung loose until his cuffs were a testament to that — to the ironclad determination that allowed his steps to fall like cat's paws against the stone. He didn't need to hold the torch — the hall was lit enough as it was, anyway. And when he was down far enough, he didn't bother changing his gait — he knew from past experience that Schlatt was probably —

"Awake already, huh?" 

The ram-horned man looked up with an eyebrow arched, not bothering to move from his bed. Schlatt's hair really had grown quite a bit longer in his time below the ground, with his scruff now almost a beard and his slightly wavy hair hanging low enough to almost be a mullet. He was the epitome of unkempt — like a member of a deserted island comedy. The man looked placid, although his expression shifted as his eyes did a visible double take, scratching lazily at the base of his neck. 

"... guess that really means Technoblade's back." 

The silent judgment and confirmation in that statement was laid on thick, but Tommy shrugged it off, tugged absently at his borrowed sleeves. They were a little baggier than what he was used to, but he'd seen Technoblade pull off too many crazy maneuvers to assume it would impede him. As long as he was careful, that is. It seemed to lend him a bit of confidence too, a quiet reminder that he was no longer alone. It was likely because of that that he could smile, wry and relaxed as he replied. 

"Guess it's about time that you're finally right for once, eh, big man?" 

To his relief, Tommy's tone sounded about as dry as he was aiming for. Something almost dismissive as he stepped properly into the light of his abandoned torch, still valiantly burning where it sat in the sconce. His bag had been left behind since he wasn't exactly sure where it had ended up, so he had resorted to grabbing randomly for one of the potatoes, but his reach for a bottle of water had come up empty. 

And promptly after that, the thought slammed into him like a truck. 

(Oh shit, he'd thought, mere moments away from slapping his bandaged palm against his face, the _bottle._ In his near manic rush, he'd entirely forgotten the reason he'd stayed so long in the dungeon to begin with. And that _was_ the reason, he reminded himself unnecessarily, it was.) 

Tommy had paused again without meaning to, although he hoped desperately that the stress didn't show in his face. Schlatt hadn't seemed to notice at least, head tipped back and pressed against the wood of his headboard. It seemed like that was his favorite place to sit — although considering his surroundings, that probably made sense. There was no way he could leave this time without getting the bottle. It had to be intact, since he saw no hints of shattered glass on the floor, but he wasn't entirely certain how to get it back without being entirely pathetic. 

(If that could even be accomplished, at this point. Reluctant as he may be to admit it, Schlatt had probably seen far worse than Tommy asking politely, but he didn't want to give him any ideas about how to use the glass if he hadn't already thought of it.) 

"I don't have water for you," Tommy said eventually, surprising himself with how little of his own nervousness bled into his words, "but I have breakfast." 

He half expected Schlatt to laugh in his face — or at the very least to make an actually _specific_ snide comment on his new garments — but instead he shrugged, reached down, and waved the intact bottle Tommy sought by its neck. Unbroken, utterly spotless. 

"My bad, but whatever. I'll live. Hand it over before I pass out, eh?" 

"You look like you just woke up," Tommy snorted, eyes flicking to Schlatt's messy hair, "how could you still be tired?" 

"Yeah? You seen your own reflection lately, pal? One of us has access to haircuts, and just as a hint; it isn't me." Schlatt ran his hands through his hair for emphasis, expression unimpressed as they caught a bit on a tangle. It took a little of the impact out of the insult. 

Tommy had the strangest impulse to stick out his tongue like a toddler, but he settled instead for a dry _"fuck you"_ as he tossed the potato lazily through the opening, which Schlatt didn't even bother trying to catch. Faintly, Tommy was surprised at his own near blazé nature while talking to Schlatt this time — Technoblade's absence must have been more of a detriment to him than even he had known, considering how simply knowing he was back seemed to bolster his spirits. 

_And,_ he admitted to himself, reluctant and only just managing not to cringe, _the crying might have been overdue._ He hadn't been lucky enough to forget everything (although he couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten to sleep), so that was seared into his brain. If it weren't for the fact that Technoblade had also _absolutely_ seen worse without judgment, Tommy would have felt worse. 

"Oi." 

Schlatt's voice pulled him out of his thoughts and he turned with as casual of an expression as he could manage — he still hadn't thought of a real game plan to get the bottle back without being obvious. The aforementioned man was already making his way back to his bed, standing at the foot of it and falling on his back without a moment of hesitation, hands behind his head. Tommy was halfway between asking him what the hell he called him for, when he saw it. 

The empty glass bottle sat on the ledge of the cell's opening. Harmless. Still unblemished, still uncracked. Still utterly unchanged. Tommy stared at it for a moment before he took it, movements slow instead of violent. Schlatt didn't bat an eye. 

"You need more sleep after all, old man?" Tommy joked aloud, half instinct and half diversion. Schlatt snorted, shrugged, and turned on his side, all without giving him so much as a glance. 

"Sure, whatever. Call it what you want, but not all of us are actually as crazy as Technoblade about schedules. Now get the hell out, I can't sleep with a toddler by my door." 

He waved Tommy off before settling back in, and after a moment Tommy realized that that was really it. By far, aside from the discomfort of the silences, this was the quickest and most hassle-free trip he'd ever made down here. The normalcy felt strange. A paradoxical mixture of relief and confusion. 

Well. If Tommy had learned anything, it was not to question miracles. 

He snagged the torch and brushed off a bit of the ash that fell from it and made his way out, and pointedly did not think about glass bottles and lost opportunities. He was two steps up when he heard something faint, something he dismissed as an absent mistake. 

_"See you, kid."_

He didn't have the faintest idea what that would mean, anyway. 

+

He was kind of hoping that Techno would still be asleep by the time he emerged from the tunnel, but he knew the second he got within range of the door that it wasn't the case. He could already make out a bit of noise, and the closer he got, the clearer it became. 

Techno — spurred on by what Tommy (admittedly hypocritically) considered hardly a blink — seemed to have decided that all of two hours was enough sleep to round off three apparent days of constant movement. When Tommy closed the door behind him, Technoblade was absently dragging his sword against a grindstone, squinting at the edges of it with his lips pulled into a grim line. 

"What are you doing?" Tommy asked, uselessly. Techno shrugged. 

"My sword got dull in the nether from fightin' the blazes specifically. Stupid metal mobs…" 

Techno's voice trailed off into absent mumbles, barely audible sounds that eventually faded even further to silence, although Tommy was half certain he could hear the turning of cogs in the other's brain, almost as prominently as his own. Some things, apparently, truly hadn't changed at all. 

_("Uh, I haven't slept," Techno admitted, monotone dragged out in a faint echo as he looked proudly upon his rows upon rows of crops — or at least, what Tommy assumed was proudly. The man looked like he was simultaneously about to drop dead from exhaustion and drop an army; both of which, admittedly, were entirely possible._

_Wilbur seemed receptive at least, in place of Tommy's silent awe, and he gave a brief wheezing laugh that was cut off slightly in disbelief._

_"You've been — that's… nearly fourteen hours, Technoblade." The pig-man shrugged, as if his labor was in any way typical._

_"Revolution waits for no man."_

_Techno may not have had their passion, nor their reason to fight — but in that moment, Tommy wondered if he even needed it. With results like this for something as mundane as farming…_

_Well shit, maybe they had a chance after all.)_

Memories and past events aside, there was absolutely no comparison between a fourteen hour farming spree and three full days of fighting. Even for Technoblade, that had to be excessive. 

He approached hesitantly, but approached all the same, with his hand carefully outstretched to grab for Techno's shoulder. 

"Techno —" 

He didn't get the chance to 'tell Technoblade off' like he wanted to; didn't even get the chance to finish his sentence. To his surprise, the pig-man turned before Tommy could touch him, moving with more speed than he'd thought he would have left in his sputtering engines. Tommy half expected him to draw his sword for all the abruptness of his movement, like some kind of paranoid soldier caught in the depths of the past. But no, Techno only looked at him, eyes as clear as they ever were, expression bland as if nothing amiss had occurred at all. 

"Hm?" 

Tommy blinked. Did the nether make him jumpy, or was that just the forced insomnia? Techno adjusted his cloak with a bland expression, looking for all the world like nothing at all was amiss. Perhaps nothing was, and Tommy was projecting his own doubts somehow, deprived of the constant speed with which Technoblade operated. Either way, his point remained the same. 

"Uh…" he cleared his throat, "look — Techno, I think you should get some sleep, big man. Actual sleep. I mean, thank you," he gestured at his shirt, then at his bandages; "but I think your sword can wait, can't it?" 

It wasn't like they were going to be marching back off into battle, and Techno rarely needed to use anything other than his axe or his crossbow on the trips that he did take anyway, even though he always brought along his entire arsenal. 

Unfortunately for him, Tommy knew firsthand just how stubborn Technoblade could be. Even as he hoped, he didn't dare _assume_ — and the second he saw the too-familiar stiff edge to Technoblade's shoulders, the angle of his posture, he felt a tiny part of him deflate without the other man saying a word. 

Techno stared at him for a little while, gaze flickering between the sword — half polished now, edges only _slightly_ chipped — and Tommy's frown. After another moment that dragged on forever, the pig-man sighed, pushed some of his hair aside with a gloved hand and fiddled with the buttoned up cuffs of his shirt.

He set the sword pointedly on the anvil, almost showmanlike, and raised his hands in surrender. Tommy couldn't help his relieved smile, although it was belated more than victorious. 

After a moment of pregnant pause, the pig-man sat back down. Techno turned his gaze to the door Tommy had only just emerged from, tipping his head a bit to nod in its general direction. 

"How's Schlatt doin’?" 

The blunt question — as weak of an attempt at a subject change as it was — was a welcome one, and drier than a desert to boot so Tommy didn't make the mistake of thinking Techno was dismissive. He'd missed that aspect of his interactions, where most things were simple even if they were unspoken. 

Tommy surprised himself though, when he chuckled. 

"The bastard's fine," he snorted, "just as much of a pain in the ass as ever, y'know." 

"You could've waited," Techno suggested, but Tommy shrugged it off. He knew what the other man was suggesting — that his job was no longer to feed and speak to their (almost?) prisoner. 

"I can handle him," he said, paused, then added; "most of the time, anyway." 

It took a moment for it to sink in why that statement felt strange, especially in the light of the previous day. When it did, Tommy had to resist the urge to drop all pretense and question himself instead. Because to his utter surprise, he was pretty sure he meant it. And that, _that_ made absolutely no sense at all. 

_Honesty for honesty's sake,_ he'd said. Thought. Whatever. Things were never meant to be that simple, were they? 

_Then again,_ he posited, _Technoblade was back._ Maybe it was a shared courage, absorbed by osmosis. Techno at least seemed satisfied by that answer, nodding his head with a dry hum. 

"Sounds about right," he muttered, "hope he didn't end up givin' you too much grief." 

The apology there was written in absences, unnecessary in Tommy's eyes. He knew that Techno wouldn't have left without good reason — and despite all the changes and stressful alterations, it wasn't like Tommy had forgotten about the absurd treasure trove Techno had retrieved. It was more than enough to at least guarantee that they didn't need to think about the nether for a long time, and he was more than happy to let that chapter go for the rest of his life. 

"It's alright, big man," Tommy said, instead. He knew Techno understood when his stiff expression shifted a little, the corners of his mouth twitching up in a barely distinctive curve. They stood like that for a while, almost basking in the familiarity offered by comfortable silence. 

"..."

"..."

Techno glanced to the side, to where Tommy's armour and now-dry weapons lay. Huffed a bemused sound.

"You haven't been neglectin' your trainin', have you?" 

It would have sounded accusatory, or at the very least oddly random — a curse of the monotone — to anyone else. To Tommy, he saw the leaves of the olive branch clear as day, and he pushed a bit of his hesitancy to the side as he smiled. 

"No," he said, a hint of old pride nudging at his heart as he thought of arrows and mist. He strode forward, reached for his crossbow and plucked absently at the string. His grip tightened around it in equal measure with his heart, and he forced the faint whispers of groans and creaks away. Better that he do something like this, better that he show Technoblade the one thing he'd tried to keep up on. 

He slung the crossbow over his shoulder, grabbed absently for a bundle of arrows. He loaded a bolt almost as quickly as Techno did, and the pig man's tired features smoothed out into something vaguely impressed. He followed Tommy without a word when he made for the door, and he didn't say a thing when he rested his hand on the knob for a split second too long before opening it. 

For today, as Tommy took a quiet breath, that was enough. 

\-----

+

\-----

.

.

.

_The leaves crunch._

_Complacency was the bane of progress, Tommy. Complacency, ignorance..._

_And quiet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how are we feeling, chat? Was the crying overboard? Are you glad to see Technoblade alive? :D
> 
> Bad jokes aside, this chapter actually went pretty smoothly for a while, but I hit a couple personal roadblocks that made me worry that it would take even longer to publish. Thankfully it didn’t end up being the case, but I would greatly appreciate it if you could point out any issues <3 your feedback means the world to me, especially since this was a bit of softer filler than action packed content. I fear it may have been a bit of boring fluff, but I wanted something that would wind down a bit from poor Tommy’s struggles.
> 
> Detailed Summary: 
> 
> Technoblade returns from the nether, a bit beaten and bruised, but victorious, and with a hell of a lot of loot to boot. Tommy takes a moment to admire it, but Techno ends up asking him about his health and overall condition, which releases the dam of Tommy's emotional turmoil. 
> 
> Tommy wakes up the next morning with a fresh set of clothes, new bandages, and an actually sleeping Technoblade. He takes this moment to feed Schlatt himself, an effort made to try and ease the exhausted man's burden. After an overall uneventful — strangely — visit, he returns, and Technoblade has a short chat with him.
> 
> Crack Summary: 
> 
> Techno comes back with shiny shit, pats Tommy on the shoulder once, and Tommy fucking cries.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Technoblade’s return, things begin to settle back into the way they used to be.
> 
> Or at least, they should be. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Miss me? 
> 
> At last, my hiatus comes to an end. Thank you so much to everyone for being so patient with me. I’ve had a lot of things happen that have made it difficult to work lately, and your kindness truly means the world. I can only hope this chapter will be an adequate gift in return.
> 
> I think my schedule will still be a little slower than I’d like, but I hope to avoid any more month-long hiatuses unless something goes awry, haha.
> 
> And as always, comments, kudos, and feedback of any kind fuel my writing power, and encourage me to move forward!
> 
> Please enjoy <3

_The swaths of mythology stained nigh everything that they touched. It was the nature of men, he thought in a voice that was not his own, to aspire to heights greater than comprehensible logic would allow._

_They had been proud, stern as they sewed a flag and cobbled together a nation. Proud and foolish and loud, gilded wax wings and glittering sunlight. It was something else to soar above the clouds, to do loops and twists in open air and announce their victory to the heavens. It was something else to survive, to fight and claw and inhale all at once when it seemed all hope had vanished from their grasp. He felt like Icarus, as his feathers lifted him up and brought him closer to the sun._

_He felt like Icarus as he fell, Wilbur's final, hysterical croak a ringing echo in his ears._

_Of all things, why...—?_

\-----

+

\-----

For a few days, it seemed like things were finally beginning to settle down. 

Having Technoblade back was what it had all been building up to — the nightmares, the terror, the fucking _quiet;_ it was all because he knew that neither of them really had a choice. He knew Techno didn't want to leave, and he sure as hell hadn't wanted to be rid of him either. And when he first arrived back at their base, Tommy honestly couldn't pinpoint the last time he'd felt such a painful rush of joy to the point of agony. Even if it took Tommy a few seconds to realize that the empty space was occupied, even if it took a hand at his back and an aching dry throat to snap back to reality, he wasn't sure he'd trade it for anything. Because the moment _after_ — the seconds he spent regaining his breath instead of choking on it, were invaluable. 

( _"I've secured our independence,"_ an age old memory whispered, heavy but hopeful. Oblivious to a future he would never know.

The explosion of voices over the comms had been enough to make him smile, even with the chasm carved in his chest. His hand clenched tight around the scroll Dream had given him, stung where his skin had touched Dream's fingers, like lit fireworks. He brushed off the fear, threw away the memories. 

_He did it,_ he'd thought then, _nobody could take it away from them now._

He didn't know now what he would do, given that same choice. He didn't know just what he would become.)

Technoblade was just as much of the rock that Tommy remembered — _which,_ he amended quickly, made perfect sense, considering he had really only been gone for half a week, at best. It was stupid to think anything would have changed about him, with his grand posture and silent intent that Tommy still felt he had yet to fully comprehend, even if he had made great leaps and bounds compared to the start. 

It took a day or two to settle into sleep — as it turned out, it really had been a mixture of sleep deprivation and incredible relief clashing together that had allowed him to pass out the first time, and it wasn't quite as simple as he wanted on the second. But seeing Techno, settled firmly in his spot with his sword resting in his lap, was enough to at least settle his racing heart somewhat whenever his body jerked frantically awake. Fading to sleep felt less like a death sentence with the pig-man steadily sharpening his worn tools — (Tommy had also only been able to stop him on the first day) — and he had to gawk a little at the effectiveness of what he could only chalk up to Technoblade's presence as a result.

Techno had taken a minute though, the day after he returned, to arch a questioning eyebrow in the general direction of the crafting table, lifting a hand and displaying a full stack — one of many — of unused arrows. Tommy had probably been deluding himself a little more than even he wanted to admit when he made them — he hadn't put much of a dent even in his first stack of spare arrows for training or otherwise. That, once again in form so familiar that Tommy may or may not have had to bite back another onslaught of embarrassing tears, was one of the first things Technoblade opted to correct. 

And that led them to where they were now, three days post-return, with Tommy crouched behind a bush and his crossbow propped up in his arms, straining to peer down at the ground below. 

Techno had watched him fire off a couple bolts into the trees, and while not entirely displeased, he seemed to be focused on something that Tommy couldn't quite place. He never quite got the chance to ask about it though, because Techno instructed him with all due confidence to wait for an actual mob to show up — fair, Tommy figured, because while convenient, trees really only served as non-mobile cannon fodder. 

He waited for what felt like a century, poised and terse with a mixture of his own boiling energy — still high off the alleviation of his nightmares, he supposed — and Technoblade's calm-but-expectant expression. He was ready, finger not quite grazing the trigger of his crossbow as he glared as hard as he could into the fog. It was only when he realized his shoulders had unintentionally begun to relax that he realised he must have been waiting for longer than he thought — and not a single mob to show for it, either. That was odd, considering how many creepy little bastards tended to hide in the forest to cower from the sun. Even if it wasn't "afternoon" high, the sun was still bright enough to burn the skin of any wary undead that were unlucky enough to cross its path. He would know, wouldn't he? 

His gut churned abruptly at the shift in thought, and he swallowed hard around the sharp sting of bile that threatened to rise with it. He winced, and the crossbow finally fell from it's position. Shit. 

"I don't know where they've gone," he piped up reluctantly, "vacation?" 

When he looked, Techno thankfully didn't seem disappointed. If anything he looked vaguely impressed, although his brow was still creased and his gaze was still locked on the ground below. His arms were hidden beneath his cloak, but Tommy knew the netherite armour was still secured firmly in place, perhaps beneath crossed arms. Techno had yet to take it off after all, and the armour stand was still empty where it sat beside the mines.

After a minute that made Tommy contemplate aiming back at the trees again, Techno waved him back. 

"No point in aimin' at nothin'," he sighed, "good work anyway. Seems like you've gotten better."

Maybe it should have been embarrassing, but Tommy felt his chest puff up a bit with pride as he plucked at the string on his weapon, eyes flitting between stone and dirt with the nature of a nervous rabbit. He had gotten more accurate, and considering the circumstances he really had gotten more training done than he'd initially thought. He had the now-absentee zombies to thank for that, he supposed. Good thing too, because there was something about their rotting flesh that still managed to turn his stomach if they got too close. Not as much as other, more dangerous mobs, but they did all the same. 

"That means a lot to me, big man." The confession came out slowly, but not due as much to reluctance as it was to his own disbelief. Techno had never set the bar particularly high on purpose, but that hadn't stopped Tommy from aspiring to a level that the pig-man had probably been aiming to avoid. It helped some that Techno never really sounded condescending; far too forthright and open to say something just for the sake of inflating someone's ego. 

"Yeah, well," Techno clicked his tongue, "Don't go gettin' cocky, alright?" 

Tommy couldn't hide his smile that time, dragged out by the abrasively blunt edge of Techno's pseudo-jab like burrs thrown a bit too hard. He nodded. 

"We should be gettin' back. About time for lunch." Another nod, another splash of refreshingly familiar synergy. 

Indeed. Four days after Technoblade's return, and steeped in the dredges of new and old familiarity, Tommy felt once again like he could relax.

+

A little later in the day Tommy squinted over Technoblade's shoulder, eyes locked on the small striped tube he was pouring a spoonful of dark powder into. 

"What are you doing?" 

In most scenarios, the opposing party would startle at the sudden intrusion — Tommy had gotten incredibly good at silencing his presence, at least compared to before. But in true Technoblade fashion the pig-man didn't even blink, and they weren't a part of most normal scenarios anyway. 

"Testin' out a theory," Techno mumbled, voice slightly muffled as he spoke around a stick he was holding between his teeth. It had a strange flat end to one side, Tommy noted, and it was coated in a thin layer of the same grey powder. That he'd seen before. He inhaled, and it clicked; just in time for his stomach to lurch like the ground had shifted beneath his feet. 

_Gunpowder,_ Tommy's nose oh-so-helpfully provided after a moment of curiosity, _it's gunpowder._ Regret seeped heavy into his bones, petrifying and quiet. He swallowed and tried to shake the thought away, scolding himself for the icy chill that slithered up his spine. He banished it; or at least tried to. This was _Technoblade._ He had his reasons. 

"A theory?" 

"An upgrade," Techno corrected after a moment, reaching up to pull the stick free. He tapped the power down into the tube with the flat end, squinting carefully down at his work. "I'm tryin' to increase the range on my crossbow without sacrificin' strength." He spoke like it was an absent thought, dripping with casual airs and not even bothering to glance up from his work; which was fair, considering it was _gunpowder_ he was working with. Quickly, Tommy scanned the area — but as he thought, Technoblade had carefully moved the torches out of range, leaving just barely enough light to work. 

That brief worry aside, Tommy could easily recall the force of that crossbow from their first trip out before the nether — the punch that had nearly blown him backwards as phantom arrows split from it's bolts. It was even easier to remember the awe that had sprouted as a result, deafening as he stared at a tree with an arrow buried so deep it looked like it had grown there. Now that he'd taken a minute to look properly, Tommy realized with a start just what it was that Technoblade was making. 

"Fireworks?"

He didn't need a verbal answer to read the slight smile that spread across Technoblade's face, tugging at his lips even as he worked with frightful efficiency. 

Fireworks used as projectile weapons, instead of signals or indicators. It made sense in theory, and it wasn't like it was an impossible stretch between a signal flare and a weapon — but Tommy had yet to meet anyone who could manage to make consistent fireworks themselves without struggling, much less modify them to use in a crossbow with any degree of accuracy. To that point, Techno set a completed firework to the side and started on another without a moment of hesitation, twirling the stick like a pencil in his hand. 

"I didn't know you could make fireworks like these," he said eventually, unable to subdue his awe, "what, were you holding out on us?" He recalled the time where Techno had given him a firework rocket to shoot off as a signal, but he'd never ended up needing it. Not to mention the size — the other firework had hardly been bigger than his finger, but this one looked to rival the size of an actual arrow. 

"No," Techno replied suddenly, breaking Tommy from his dry attempt at humor with his own snort; "... well, kinda? I've been tryin' to get this to work for a while, but it never really came up. I had a functionin' prototype, but…" 

Techno's voice trailed off almost reluctantly, deepening Tommy's frown. He smothered the barest hint of suspicion before it could even spark to life, lest it swallow him up in a flame made of his own self loathing. Techno had his reasons — and hell, Tommy was kind of glad they hadn't had access to something like this in it's beta stages. As much as he hated the man with Wilbur's face, he understood him too well to think he'd choose to be rational and wait for it to be safe before using it for his own ends. Not that that mattered anymore. 

Fuck. No, no. Anything else, think about anything else. 

"Why are you working on this now?" 

Tommy's voice as he asked the question was a little stiff, but whatever. That was fine, as long as he could drag himself away from the ledge he knew he was always a step away from tumbling down. Too close for comfort, too far to bring it up. 

"I need better range," Techno repeated plainly, as if that explained anything at all; "crossbows are great for firin' at one target at a time, maybe three if you've got multi-shot like I do. But this'll be better for mass destruction, or one heavy hit." 

Tommy admittedly didn't see the point in _Technoblade_ — of all people — seeking even stronger and wider range weapons, but he wasn't about to protest against something that would improve their security. It wasn't like he feared the trial and error of it all either, since Techno seemed familiar enough with these prototypes that Tommy was pretty certain the margin for error was negligible at most. Even if it was a little odd, it was fine. Even if Technoblade's flat expression looked just a bit off as he poked around the gunpowder, it would be alright. Even if it was strange, the fact that he was suddenly digging up old projects and working with gunpowder again, it would be alright, wouldn't it? Tommy had exhaled and shrugged. He'd leave Techno to it, he decided then and there, turning on his heel and heading toward the mines. 

While the quiet itch of unanswered curiosity carved a path against his scarred skin like the first hint of hives, he brushed it off without much worry; Techno would tell him when he was ready to. 

Somewhere behind him, he could have sworn he heard the jostle of another sheet of paper. On to the next firework, he supposed. And if he flinched a little at the idea of the sound, he could at least handle that much on his own.

+

Unfortunately for Tommy, it seemed that curiosity and it's pets had decided to cling to him after all, digging in their claws and meowing incessantly, despite his desire to leave well enough alone. Because Technoblade had, in fact, handled the firework issue on his own. 

By making them for nearly _three days straight._

Tommy figured he could be forgiven if he found that just a little odd, considering how abrupt it had become. It was strange after all, to see Techno suddenly shift gears like that without a solid explanation. No matter what he did, there was almost always a reason for it as far as Tommy knew — and Techno wasn't one to keep information from him without due cause. Maybe that contributed to his confusion, or maybe it was his own lingering paranoia. Either way, he was unsettled. 

Ironically, despite the excessive time and effort that had been dedicated to their newfound situation, — did that word apply? — Tommy actually knew very little about Technoblade's factual past. For that matter, he couldn't think of many people who did; factual, of course, being the key word there. 

He knew more than others — the details of his fight with Dream, the techniques he was willing to share, his sleepless attitude and stern temperament — but when it came to the details of his actions prior to _meeting_ the man, very little came to mind other than whispered rumors. 

But despite this discrepancy in knowledge, Tommy considered himself to be closer to Technoblade than anyone. And he knew — logically, although he was not always fully convinced of it himself — that it was a very near thing, if not a definite fact. He knew Techno, to an extent that his past self would never have imagined. Hell, he would only have to go back part of the way to recall a time where he had thought of Technoblade as a trump card and nothing more; a weapon, a _blade._ That final thought made something like guilt sting his stomach, and he winced as he shook it away. He wasn't exactly sure when that train of thought had changed, but he had a damn good guess — one that he _really, really did not want to think about right now._

The point being, as he sat on the side of his bed with his blankets pulled up to his chest, hands still slightly chilled from when he'd washed them off after dinner, he felt like something was… off. Enough so that it was disrupting his ability to attempt to sleep, at least. Enough so that his eyes were drawn to Techno's back — the man was _still_ working on the fireworks.

Techno seemed utterly unconcerned about it though, focused as ever on his newfound task. It seemed it was fireworks again, since the pig-man was hunched over the crafting bench with his focus squarely intensified on his tools. He'd only taken a second to pause and scarf down his meal before he went back to it, and the pile of fireworks was growing at a slightly concerning pace. (Not, Tommy admitted with a bit of pained embarrassment as he thought of his excess arrows; that he was one to talk.) 

Technoblade's cautious focus made sense though, considering the volatile nature of the powder needed to make fireworks to begin with. At some point during the second day, the pig-man had asked Tommy to grab a vial of glowstone dust, which he had obviously obliged. In the end, Techno just propped it up near his workspace and left it alone. Since it was such a difficult material to acquire, much less acquire _whole,_ Tommy had actually never seen the stuff used for anything but potion-making — but it made sense to actually use it for its namesake now and again, even if it was only in its powdered form. Glowstone, in true-to-name fashion, served as quite an effective and safe method of lighting up volatile spaces where flames would cause possible danger. 

"Shouldn't you be sleepin'?"

Shit. Caught in the act — or, more likely, he'd never been stealthy to begin with. The latter thought made him laugh, just a little. Technoblade's voice, for his part, was dry as the desert sand, and yet again he still did not turn to look at the bed. But Tommy had a feeling he'd felt eyes on his back for as long as Tommy had been staring. Techno, he'd come to discover, had an incredible amount of patience in his repertoire. That was something he never would have expected _before._

"I just — sorry, big man. Just trying to figure out what all that's supposed to be used for." 

Tommy kept his tone level — as much as he'd tried to subdue his own curiosity, when Techno had gotten to work on a secondary pile of fireworks, curiosity at last got the best of him. 

"I told you," Techno huffed, although he angled his head upward to avoid disturbing the powder he was tapping down; "it's all for increased range."

 _But you don't need it, do you?_ Tommy only barely bit back, _and definitely not in that amount._ He shook that away immediately; of course Techno was being cautious. As much as Tommy didn't want to — (and had successfully managed not to for quite a while) — think about it, it wasn't like they were free from _all_ danger. More than anything, he was impressed his own brain wouldn't shut the hell up about it and let him sleep. If it wanted to torment him, he'd rather it happen when he had a chance at being lucky enough to forget it. 

"It doesn't matter if we think I don't need it, Tommy." 

He startled. For a second, he thought he'd spoken aloud after all — but honestly, it was probably his bad. Techno was incredibly perceptive; he'd just grown slightly out of touch with his absence. Speaking with Schlatt, while complicated in its own right, was less devoted to meaningful silences. The pig-man continued after a short pause. 

"You can never be too prepared for stuff like this. Can't go thinkin' you're invincible. That's how you get defeated. You gotta cover your blind spots, especially if you think you don't have them."

“What, do you think something's wrong?" 

The words slipped out before he could stop them, but honestly he wasn't sure if he would even if he could. He wasn't good at managing certain stresses alone, and he knew that; but something was making him uneasy, and having it confirmed or denied by someone else would at least help him feel like he wasn't crazy. 

But Technoblade didn't reply right away. He tapped down another batch of powder and set another completed firework aside, and started folding another one into shape. Tommy watched him from the bed, brows pinched with a mixture of concern and confusion. 

Eventually though… 

"... I'm not sure." 

Tommy blinked. That wasn't the answer he was expecting.

"I doubt it," Techno continued, and maybe Tommy was projecting, but it sounded almost as close to hurriedly as he could get; "but it doesn't hurt to be prepared." 

_Remember that, Tommy,_ Techno didn't say aloud. Tommy heard it anyway, and he didn't know how to feel about that. He watched Technoblade work silently for a few more minutes, lips pulled into a thin, worried line. 

"Go to sleep, Tommy." Techno's voice was perfectly level again, laden with the calm, assured confidence Tommy knew so well. 

_He must have been projecting,_ he scolded himself, _Technoblade is fine. He's just being careful._ Honestly, Tommy was glad he wasn't the only one on guard — and if nothing else, the fireworks could make a show, couldn't they? Maybe once Techno was finished, he could try shooting a few instead of his arrows when they trained. 

It wasn't enough to banish the thought completely — Tommy wasn't sure there was much that would do it at this point — but it was enough to at least push it off for another day. 

So, he slept. (At least, as peacefully as he could manage to.)

+

Ten days passed since Technoblade's triumphant return from the nether, and life mostly settled back into what felt familiar to him. It seemed that Techno was determined not to let anything fall apart again, because he slid perfectly back into his self-assigned duties without a word allotted for protest. As a result, Tommy was mostly left to his own devices; free to spend his time doing whatever the hell he wanted to do. 

The problem with that, of course? 

Was that there was nothing _to_ do. 

He spent a bit of time mining for a while, but after throwing another handful of diamonds into an ever-growing stack of _actual blocks,_ he began to feel like there was no real point in continuing to collect them. They were also growing rarer, since so much of their time at the start had been occupied with looking for resources. Training hadn't been much help either. Techno, despite what he said about wanting to get back to work, had actually refused the few times in which Tommy had asked him to fight with him, citing exhaustion and a certain wish to set the sword down for a little while, since he was busy working on his new firework pet project. Tommy had let that one go pretty easily too — really, Techno could have asked him for pretty much anything and he would have agreed immediately — and he hadn't brought it up again after the third refusal. Fishing… 

Well. That wasn't an option, even if you only considered the weather. 

With both of those ideas out the window and no reason to craft more supplies — they had a surplus of pretty much everything but potions, and Technoblade had _that_ covered too, which, considering his inability to brew, made sense — Tommy was left to do… pretty much nothing. More than once, he'd told Techno he was just going to sit up top and watch the treeline; get some air, that sort of thing. But he could only really spend so much time staring at leaves, especially considering that Techno never seemed to want to come up with him. 

As much as he didn't want to admit it, he had a feeling he knew why. Technoblade had been concerned about him, in all likelihood, after coming back to the absolute disaster that had been his last outing. It was his own fault, in hindsight, for going out angry and without any due preparation, not to mention at _night._ At this point he was more embarrassed of that than upset, although he still shuddered whenever the memory lingered for too long. 

Left to his own thoughts though, Tommy was allowed quite a lot of time to deliberate over nonsense. And as time went by without much else to do but fire arrows into the sunset like some bootleg Robin Hood, he grew more and more antsy, and the monotony of the passing days truly wasn't helping matters, since he itched to help. To _do_ something, to make things easier somehow. It felt like Techno was taking on far too much and asking for far too little; and honestly, maybe it really had always been like that. But he was aware enough now to notice, awake enough to be disturbed by his own complacency, especially since Techno seemed to be focusing on better offensive and defensive measures for a yet-to-exist security concern. 

_But what could he do?_ He thought to himself, aimlessly, _there was nowhere to go, short of the…_

_The village._

Tommy shot up where he sat, cogs already beginning to turn rapidly in his head. 

That was it. 

_That was it!_

They'd essentially eaten nothing but potatoes for long enough that Tommy was half certain they'd all go mad — but back at the village, he'd seen a variety of different crops, and they'd had plenty of different foods to pick from. He recalled the bread he'd eaten there quite vividly, and that sounded like a hell of a refreshing change of pace. As a bonus, the village wasn't far out enough to take him all day — if he moved quickly and left earlier, he could be back before the sun even started to go down. 

He would have to be careful, though. Tommy was far from stupid — he knew what it meant to learn from your past mistakes, and he was deadset on not letting what happened last time happen to him again. Both for his own sake, and for the sake of his plan. Techno ate the potatoes without complaint of course, but if Tommy could do anything to help, he would. And even though they could survive just fine off of one food alone, it would be nice to have the option of changing things up again. 

+

"You want to go to the village?" 

Tommy shifted where he stood, fiddling absently with his sleeves. He still wasn't used to them — not as much as he was with his old shirt anyway — but he'd grown more familiar with them as time passed, and to be honest it felt nice to be able to _change_ shirts every now and again. He nodded after a moment, jaw tense with caution. Across from him, still sat with one arm leant against the crafting table, Technoblade looked up with one arched eyebrow. He, Tommy noted absently in an attempt to distract himself, was still wearing his combat gloves — it was pretty impressive that neither his cloak or his gloves got in the way of the fine details like that. 

He understood Technoblade's hesitancy, he really did. Hell, _he_ was hesitant about it, at least after the initial dopamine rush from coming to a proper decision about what he planned to do. But he was more certain about this than he was about anything else that had happened recently. 

"I won't go without some kind of weapon," he added immediately, "and they have a blacksmith, don't they? I could get my armour fixed and be back before sundown." 

At that Techno's expression remained unreadable, and Tommy couldn't help but feel like some chastised kid waiting for an adult's permission. It had been a hell of a long time since he'd felt like that, and it didn't bother him as much as it probably would have in the past — although, whether that was because he'd matured or because _Techno_ was the adult in question was beyond him. Either way, he was more concerned with how this conversation would turn out than what it took to get there. 

"Why are you so set on goin' _alone?"_ The last part of that sentence made Tommy flinch. 

If he was being honest with himself — and he was getting a lot better at that than he used to be — he wasn't looking forward to that part of it at all, and if there was any other option he could think of he'd probably have taken it. But as it was, he wanted it to be a surprise. Not to mention the fact that Techno was so busy, focus divided enough between his projects and daily tasks already without having to plan for another trip. 

"I don't want you to have to come with me, big man. Not after you just got back." 

It was a partial truth — well, technically a whole truth, but a part of a whole idea. It was certainly the best excuse he had, and it wasn't like it was an elaborate lie. It was a perfectly valid reason for Technoblade to stay while he went off and made a few non-suspicious purchases. 

Techno's lips thinned out slightly as he thought, brow furrowed with consideration. Tommy did his damndest to look as casual as he could manage — he needed to show him that he could handle this much, at least. 

"..."

"..."

Techno's stare felt like it would burn holes through his skull, but he held his gaze anyway. He had to. 

"... you're taking my sword and coming back before the sun goes down," he said, "and the new netherite chestplate is almost done. Wait until then." 

His tone, although level and likely difficult to tell apart from his usual monotone, booked absolutely no room for argument. But that was fine. It was a hell of a lot more than Tommy had been hoping for, and he had to resist the urge to physically sigh and sag in relief. Instead, he smiled as cockily as he could manage, trying to pour in everything he had of his old bravado. He really hadn't had a secondary plan for if Technoblade refused to let him go — it wasn't like he was going to sneak out and not tell him where he was going, like some kind of idiot. 

"Fine by me," he announced, a bit of his initial excitement leaking back into his tone as he thought of the future; "just you wait, Technoblade. You won't regret it."

\-----

+

\-----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone curious about how things are going to move forward? Tommy’s 1-1 for good and bad days out, so it’s certainly a toss up. Thoughts?
> 
> Being honest, this is probably one of my least favorite chapters, since I feel that it is pretty sub-par. But you all have been waiting for such a long time, so I aimed to polish this enough to post by February 1st. Thankfully, what’s coming up next will hopefully be more fleshed out! So stay tuned, my friends, we’re heading into the beginning of the ending arcs.
> 
> Detailed Summary:
> 
> Tommy and Technoblade spend a little bit of time training on the top of the cliff, but eventually give up on the idea after not being able to find any hostile mobs in the trees. Later on, Tommy discovers Technoblade is working on an upgrade for his already incredibly powerful weapon, to his surprise and mild confusion. The work continues, and Tommy is no closer to getting actual answers.
> 
> A few days later, Tommy — growing antsy from the lack of ability to help — comes up with a plan to gather different foods from the village, which is eventually reluctantly approved by Technoblade... That is, under the assurance that he will both wait for a proper chestplate, take his sword, and come back before nightfall. 
> 
> Crack Summary: Tommy and Techno try and fail to shoot some shit. Techno makes weapons to become even more overpowered. Tommy wants to let them eat something other than potatoes, and Technoblade shovel talks the actual sun.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy goes on his trip to the village in search of Technoblade's thank-you gift, and comes to a few new realizations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright I know we've done this a ton, but can I GET AN 80K WORDS POG?! :D 
> 
> Wow, good lord. Over 80,000 words, almost 90,000. This fic is a monster, and that's putting it lightly haha. 
> 
> I don't have too much to say about this chapter, but I sincerely hope you all find it worth the wait. Your support and continual love has meant so much to me, and it really does make my day whenever anyone takes the time out of their day to read what I've written, much less write a comment about it. It blows me away how kind and supportive the community has been, and I can only hope my work lives up to your expectations. 
> 
> Anyway, I won't take up anymore of your time, dear reader. As always, comments, kudos, and feedback of any kind truly do fuel my tired, creative soul. And as always, detailed descriptions of the events will be in the end notes below, so avoid those until after if you want to avoid spoilers for the chapter.
> 
> Please enjoy. <3

_"Hey, Tubbo?"_

_"Mmmhm?"_

_The shorter boy was still knelt by the edge of the creek, filling up a bucket with an absent hum. He'd been going on and on about having to sterilize his tools before, so Wilbur had sent them out to grab what they'd need — those trips had been growing shorter and shorter these days, so Tommy was usually grateful for the reprieve._

_"... do you think Wilbur's gonna be alright, big man?"_

_Tommy hated how his voice sounded in that moment. It lacked all the sharp edges that he put so much care into presenting, melted them down until it barely sounded like an assertion at all. But he couldn't help it. Couldn't take back what had already been done, not when the sound of water sloshing against metal suddenly stopped, the river abruptly unimpeded._

_"... Tubbo?"_

_"I think things are different now, Tommy."_

_Tubbo's voice was faint. Just barely so, but still faint all the same._

_"I think some things were going to change from the start._

_And Wilbur might have been one of them."_

\-----

+

\-----

Tommy planned set out in the early dredges of the morning, when the sun just barely began to peek over the edges of the mountain. Even then, he only waited that long in interest of mob elimination — whether they were visible or not, zombies and skeletons in large numbers were a dangerous risk he didn't have to take, and for his and Technoblade's sake alike, he wasn't interested in needless risks for something as paltry as pride. 

Technoblade, in typical fashion, was awake before Tommy was. He had plopped down on his stone bench, gesturing to the side with a low neutral hum at a bag, clearly expectant. 

"Your armour's on the stand," he clarified, "but the actual stuff you'll be needin' is packed in there. Not a ton since you won't be gone for long," the latter part of that sentence felt sharper than the rest, pointed despite his level tone, and Tommy gave a sheepish thumbs up in reply; "but you've got all the basics in there. Water, food, extra arrows, that kind of thing." 

The pig-man sighed heavily as Tommy stretched his arms out a bit, and he frowned into his gloved hands. Tommy tried his best to assuage his worries, puffing out his chest with all his remaining strength. 

"C'mon big man, it's not like I'm going on a long trip," he joked, "I'll be gone for half a day, and back before sundown. If you keep this up, I'll start thinking that you care." 

His tone was lighthearted, but if he was being honest, it did actually help his mood a little to know that Techno had prepared so much for this. He'd seen it of course, signs over the past few days as Techno worked tirelessly away at finishing off Tommy's chestplate. It seemed both of them had carefully discarded his poor lie about getting his armour repaired — Techno was fully capable of doing that himself and they _both_ knew it — in favor of just labeling it an outing. Something to stretch his legs and keep him from going mad. He was fine with that much, even if it felt a little excessive. 

Even so, seeing the pig-man snort and roll his eyes was a familiar and comforting sight, and Tommy took solace in a motion that he properly understood. Techno was still pretty pale — the nether, while incredibly, _suffocatingly_ hot, did nothing for the pallor of one's skin — and Tommy wanted to help get some color back to him in any way that he could. As far as his pleasant memories stretched, (and they did indeed have to stretch quite far) food played an incredibly large part in a comfortable recovery, and if he couldn't get the pig-man to actually sleep when Tommy was aware of it, he could at least kill two birds with one stone. He'd get what he needed for a thank-you gift, grab some different crops, stretch his legs, _and_ give Techno some time to himself all at once. 

_That,_ Tommy amended after a moment of thought, _probably actually counted as four birds, not two._ But that was irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, so he pushed it aside. He wasn't the one who focused on semantics, and he really ought to be more focused on making his trekk before Technoblade took back his blessing. 

Admittedly, even now, Tommy was half expecting Technoblade to change his mind at any second. It was a little unreasonable, he knew that, Techno had never really pried into matters that Tommy didn't want him to unless absolutely necessary — privacy was a godsend in a small space like this, and Techno usually kept to himself — but he was still a little surprised that the pig-man hadn't insisted on coming along. 

_He had to take advantage of the opening while he had it,_ he affirmed, _before it passed him by._

"If you aren't back before sundown I'm comin' after you," Techno informed, "so do us both a favor and don't get lost. I marked the map, but it should be pretty easy to find." At the last sentence, Tommy had to stifle a laugh. Easy to find? The village? 

Sure, _now_ it might be. But had he not been there once already and been given a rather detailed map, he probably would have gotten lost. Not everyone was suited to being the 'human GPS' like Techno described himself as. But despite all of that, Tommy had to admit that it felt kind of nice to know Techno hadn't considered that — whether it was because Tommy was actually beginning to approach Technoblade's level of skill in the pig-man's eyes, or if he was just meticulous and had faith in his own preparations and their capability to keep Tommy safe, it was reassuring either way.

He picked up the bag as he walked past it, smiling a little; a slightly muted thing that only just barely managed to warm his chest. As if on cue, Techno dropped the chestplate unceremoniously above him, somehow planning it so it fell perfectly into place, only needing to be adjusted a bit before he was essentially perfectly prepared. It was slightly chilled from the air of their cave, but it served as another layer of insurance. With all of that said and done, Techno leant back against the wall, arms crossed evenly over his chest. 

"Well go on, get goin'", he prompted after a moment, "you should be able to make pretty good time as long as you get some food in Carl before you make him run."

Tommy nodded along on instinct, halfway to the door, when his entire body froze like it had been physically struck. His brain flattened as he searched for a coherent thought, and eventually landed on an eloquent:

"... _wha—?"_

He heard a faint puffing sound, like a muffled chuckle hidden behind a cupped hand. When he whirled, Techno was smirking at him, looking all-too-satisfied with himself. 

"Techno?!"

"What, you really thought I was gonna make you head to the village on _foot?"_ Techno snorted, conveniently leaving out the fact that technically, Tommy had been the one to suggest moving that way; not that it really mattered now, because he was too flabbergasted to interrupt as he continued; "take Carl, or one of the others if you want to since he can be a little testy. Doesn't matter to me as long as you both get back here without dyin'." 

Tommy sputtered, fumbling the bag that had previously felt so sturdy in his hands a moment ago, before the rug had been yanked hard from beneath his feet. 

Technoblade's horses were _good._ Honestly that might be the biggest understatement of the year, but Tommy wasn't sure how else to describe them when he was kind of working on ten-percent brain power. Like everything else Technoblade had handled them himself, from breeding to care to their diet — everything was handled personally with the intent of creating the best army of horses he possibly could. Those that didn't make the cut were set loose into the wild, and Tommy would have bet money that those bastards ended up being the leaders in some kind of wild horse hierarchy. Technoblade rejects, after all, were still leagues above the rest. Back right before Techno had headed into the nether, he'd brought his horses back and pulled them into a side-alcove that Tommy had never really felt the need to venture into. Techno warned him against it — _they aren't used to new people yet, Tommy —_ and eventually told him that he'd automated their feeding system a while ago, (of _course_ he had) and he'd just needed some time to get that set up here instead. 

But Carl? _Carl_ was Technoblade's crowning achievement. Fast, a great jumper, and absolutely fucking _massive._ Tommy had only seen him once or twice, but he was a beast of a horse that could and would kick a zombie's teeth in half a second, a creeper even faster. Hell, if it was between the horse and an enderman, Tommy would still put his totally-unbiased money on Carl. That being said, Carl was fucking terrifying, and Tommy — while not a _bad_ rider — was really not sure if he'd survive if Carl decided he was a nuisance and ended up bucking him off. 

Now if only he could _convey_ that.

"I — uh — Techno, big man, I — I mean I appreciate — but, uh —"

Techno's expression didn't waver, but his smile did widen as he waved an absent hand, dismissive. 

"I said take Carl _or_ one of the others," he reminded easily, "Andrew's a good backup horse if you're lookin' for speed — but if you don't want him either you can pick from the numbered guys. I don't really care." 

Techno had only kept a few of his numbered horses from the start, but each one, while mediocre in _comparison_ to Carl, were still pretty damn effective. Tommy was pretty sure his head was about to pop off his shoulders if he didn't get himself under control again though, so he took a frigid breath of air and hoped it would anchor him into the floor. 

"... Christ, big man." 

Yeah. That about summed up the effectiveness of that effort. 

"Don't gimme that look," Techno said, "it's just a horse, Tommy. It'll make it easier for me if you take one anyway, since I really don't give them enough exercise."

Tommy wasn't sure why that phrasing made it feel a little easier to accept — honestly it was kind of insane that Techno somehow managed to make it sound like a favor, even more so that it actually made it easier to speak. But it did, and _he_ did, so he nodded his head. 

"Okay," he breathed, "jesus shit — thank you, Technoblade."

"Oh, so it's Techno _blade_ now, huh?" Techno joked lightly, "alright, I see. But seriously Tommy, get goin'. Better now than later, before I change my mind."

"Right!"

Tommy was pretty sure they both knew that wasn't going to happen, but he wasn't about to take chances. He hooked his bag over his shoulder and smiled, a brighter, more energetic thing than before, saluting half-jokingly as he darted towards the exit. Technoblade watched him go, lips still tugged lightly into a bemused half-smile as he went. It dropped a little as he sighed, rubbing absently at the back of his neck with a gloved hand. 

"Don't rush too much," Techno mumbled to the open air as he adjusted his cloak, tugging the fur of it tighter around his neck; "wish I'd known that much." 

+

Tommy's steps were inordinately light as he crept toward a simple, even wall. It blended pretty well with the face of the cliff, barely even a seam to be seen even if he all but pressed his cheek against the stone. For all intents and purposes, it looked like a completely ordinary wall — there was even a decent amount of moss creeping up the area nearest to the ground, unbroken. 

He had to look for the button — _really_ look — for about five minutes before he actually saw it, and even then it was only because he actually knew what he was after. A single stone button, half covered by grass and leaves, hidden beneath an unassuming bush and cradled against the wall. Even when he spotted it he second guessed himself, only opting to reach down and push it when he realized he could always try again if he was wrong. 

It clicked perfectly into place without so much as a sound, and he heard a great shuddering sound, like metal against metal muffled by layers of dirt. He shot up as quickly as he could, eager to catch an up-close look at what he knew was hidden there — what he had seen Techno building — beneath the veneer of perfect rock. To his surprise, the doorway actually opened up a bit above the ground — about halfway to his knees, which meant he had to properly climb over it — which explained how the moss at the bottom had been left completely undisturbed. 

From there, it was a matter of following the well lit passage, made even easier by the rather high ceilings that accounted for a pretty tall rider atop a horse. There was a button placed on the wall near the start too, — far more obvious than the first — set between two evenly spaced torches, and Tommy didn't need to press it to guess what the purpose of it was. He did it anyway — it didn't hurt to be safe. 

It was kind of incredible, being able to watch as the stone shifted. It probably involved some kind of piston system, but he'd never been too involved in that sort of thing. So he settled for being impressed, huffing a laugh as the walls closed like perfectly slotted puzzle pieces. If he hadn't watched it himself, he would have sworn the wall had never been open at all. 

_“God,”_ he breathed to himself, faint even as it echoed; “for fucks sake, Techno.” 

He stretched his arms out a little, impressed by the fact that even stretched out, his fingertips were still quite a-ways away from touching the ceiling as he went. 

Eventually, the space gave way to a larger and rather well lit enclosure — one with a surprisingly natural feel. The stone transitioned quite suddenly into wooden planks, then to a series of well carved and slightly smoothed out logs set beside one another in a consistent pattern. Each horse paddock was made of more wood, white pillars and small patches of transported bushes stretching up to the ceiling to mark the separation. While certainly not _spacious,_ it seemed like each horse had enough room to at least trot in a small circle behind their carefully crafted fences. 

Propped up just above each entrance, a single sign marked each area. 

_Carl, Andrew, Horse #47, and Horse #60._

Tommy couldn’t help but laugh — Carl and Andrew weren’t exactly surprising or inspired names, especially considering that he’d seen them before, but the echoes of horror he’d felt at the knowledge of how many horses Technoblade had worked with had long since given way to fond admiration. Was it excessive? Probably. But did it get results? _Yes._

He peered inside Horse #60’s paddock first, figuring that it was probably easier to go from least to most intimidating. Horse #60 was a beautifully sleek black horse with a gradient that led to white around its ankles, as well as a small patch of brown and white on its nose that made it look a bit like a German Shepard. It looked up after a moment, eyes piercing into Tommy’s own. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was challenging him somehow — but not maliciously. Sizing him up, almost as if to say _don’t underestimate me._

…

Or, Tommy needed to stop projecting his own feelings onto horses. Probably that one. He offered an awkward, almost apologetic smile that he knew the animal couldn’t understand, and looked away. _Moving on._

Horse #47 was brown instead of black, with only a few small splotches of black around each of its hooves to break up the pattern. As if to exemplify this more muted change, the horse only peered at him, snuffling softly at the ground as it trotted forward a step. In all regards, it was Horse #60’s opposite, and he lingered at it's gate with a sense of quiet curiosity — a breed that he had grown particularly familiar with, even if… _recent_ events overshadowed it. Just a little. 

The horse slowly raised its head, and Tommy spent a moment examining the environment it had been settled into. Like the others it was a rather expansive space — Technoblade still did nothing by halves — littered with intermittent patches of grass, some more obviously grazed upon than others, and the water in its trough seemed perfectly clean. He didn't put it past the pig-man to have rigged a system to change it, even if he couldn't see one outright. 

"..."

He could move on, if he wanted to. Move on from this horse to the next like he intended — it was always going to be one of the three anyway, since he'd essentially crossed off Carl's name since it was originally brought up. He couldn't imagine anyone being able to handle him save for Techno himself, but he hadn't done the same to Andrew. In all honesty, he realized abruptly, he was probably planning on _picking_ Andrew from the start, if he seemed manageable. 

But something about this horse — technically nameless, utterly ordinary looking as it may be — pulled him forward, and he furrowed his brow. 

Before each paddock, a small chest sat atop a small platform. He popped it open, and blinked. 

_Golden carrots._ And quite a few of them too, bound up in groups by the leaves like a bushel. 

They weren't a particularly _rare_ food source — in fact, it was one of the most popular ways that people practiced the method used to create golden apples — and definitely not the most tasty, but they were prized for their ability to stay edible regardless of the conditions the consumer was in. They survived for quite a while without any help, no need to worry about mold or rot — even in a hot and humid environment like swamps, which were notorious for causing most food sources to go bad in less than half the time — and even more so for potions of night vision, if the brewer was skilled enough. 

_("Can't you just shove the carrot into the thing and be done with it?" Tommy grumbled, tugging at his shirt collar impatiently._

_His fingertips itched with anxiety. Even within the walls of L'Manburg, he knew better than to feel safe — Dream did so love his stupid fucking mind games these days. Why he wouldn't just let them be free, he didn't know. But it was quickly becoming a battle of attrition, and they needed these potions if they were going to get out without attracting attention. Invisibility and night vision were a damnably good combo, if only Tubbo would hurry the fuck up. As if to spite him, Tubbo scoffed at that exact moment, waving him away._

_"It isn't that simple, Tommy!" He insisted, still refusing to turn away from his work; "potions are extremely delicate things y'know. Sure, you_ could _get something from just throwing everything in a pot, but it runs the risk of becoming a poison potion if you're lazy about it. And even if it works, it usually only lasts for a few seconds."_

_Tommy paused at that, albeit reluctantly. They both knew that a few seconds could make all the difference. It was a lesson they'd learned recently, but it was a pertinent one._

_"... fine. Just — just hurry up." A token protest, mumbled even as he backed away, leant against the wall with as much aloof annoyance as he could manage._

_For normality's sake.)_

He picked up one of the carrots and shut the lid. Hilariously, the horse's head shot up with interest, and he couldn't help his smile as he held it out. 

"Whaddya say, big man?" He said, embarrassingly only half-jokingly as he offered his gilded bribe; "you want to come with me?" 

Horse #47 took it. 

And Tommy smiled. 

+

"Techno!" 

Tommy called to him over the sound of the wall shifting, risking a quick glance to watch as the final cracks smoothed over without a sign. Techno, who had been waiting for him when the wall first cracked open again, huffed a low laugh. 

"Somehow, I'm both surprised and not," he sighed, striding up to Tommy and his chosen steed with ease. He laid a heavy hand on the nape of the horse, stroking back some of its mane. "So, #47 then. Good choice Tommy, she's a pretty solid one. Just don't go lettin' her make any big jumps, that's what she's weakest at." 

The critique should have been harsh — especially with his monotone — but Techno's voice lended an almost affectionate note to it, like he was speaking of a particularly exasperating chip in stone instead of a detrimental flaw. It wasn't like Tommy minded either way, since his main concern was agility and speed. 

More pressingly…

"She's a girl?" He blinked. Somehow he hadn't seen that coming, and it must have shown on his face, because Techno snorted. 

"Yeah," he said, "bein' honest Tommy, she's probably the fastest horse I have, short of Carl." 

Technoblade's expression leveled out, and his smile turned dry, just a few degrees shy of fond as he gave the horse one final pat before turning away. 

"... y'know, I actually never got around to namin' her either. #47 just kind of stuck after a while, but… eh." 

On some days, Tommy was willing to bet money on the fact that Techno could read minds — particularly _his_ — with frightening accuracy. Today was one of them. 

"Really," he mumbled, "well — uh. Y'know, you could leave it that way. Your horse, big man." 

Tommy never got the chance to name his old horse. Not that he would have anyway, since naming pets tended to paint a giant red target on them back then — fucking _Sapnap,_ he thought with more bitterness than he thought he would — but he still found the time to regret it. A small nick on his long list of regrets. Techno shrugged.

"Well if you think of a good name, let me know. I don't mind you namin' her as long as it isn't somethin' stupid." 

Tommy paused, taken aback. 

_Him?_ Name the horse? 

"Wait — really? Is that really..?"

Techno waved him off, expression so serious that Tommy was surprised he recognized it as casual assurance. 

"Yeah, I don't care. It's just a horse, Tommy. And it's not like I ride her enough to be super attached to a name, much less the number I called her. Go ahead." 

Tommy turned to the horse, trying to push down a bit of his excitement. It wasn't that big of a deal — even Technoblade seemed to think so, and the man was a hell of a stickler for the things he managed to create or cultivate — but he couldn't hide his smile. He had a name off the top of his head, surprising even himself with how softly he muttered it. 

_("If you had a pet moth, what would you name it, Tommy?")_

"... Clementine," he mumbled, reaching up to stroke her mane with as much care as Technoblade had; "I think I'll call her Clementine." 

It surprised him how little bitterness rose up in him at the memory. It ached, certainly, but the pain was a low and slow burn instead of a spike to his heart, and he found he could breathe a little easier after a moment, like he'd physically gotten it off his chest. Horse #47 — _Clementine_ now — pushed her face a little closer to his hand when he offered it, and his smile grew softer. 

"Eh," Techno snuffed, scratching his neck beneath the cloak's fluff; "I could think of worse names. Clementine it is." 

Techno's approval soothed the little turmoil that had risen in him, and Tommy beamed a wide smile. Techno returned it, albeit in a smaller, more indulgent form than before. 

"Get outta here," Techno chuckled, "I've got some things to take care of, okay? Take your time." 

Tommy nodded firmly, only hesitating for a moment as he pulled himself up onto Clementine's back. As expected of a horse trained and reared by Technoblade, she didn't move an inch, and he was settled into the saddle rather quickly. When he tugged on her reins, she moved with ease. 

"We'll be off then," he waved. Techno returned that too. He nudged her forward, and off they went. 

_Well shit,_ he thought quietly to himself as the ground began to pass by at an even pace, _if only they could see me now._

Strangely enough? That one didn't hurt as much as he thought it would either. 

+

The wind flew by his ears with a roar so intense that Tommy swore he'd go deaf, and the prospect would have scared him had it not been so exhilarating. 

The trees had turned to a blur around him, but the ride was unexpectedly smooth — Clementine, just as Technoblade said, was remarkably calm, easily steered away from any errant mobs that tried to turn their heads. More than once, a single flaming arrow soared by, either dodged by a change in course or a swing of his sword. The first time that actually worked, he felt a surge of pride as he whooped to the open air — and it never quite went away, even after the third, fourth, fifth. 

Strangely enough, he still saw very few zombies on his way. That made more sense as he approached the open plains of course, since the lack of cover from the trees was likely an intentional protective measure for the village, but it still took him aback whenever he caught a series of glimpses of rotting bone with no green flesh or grasping hands to be seen. Zombies tended to gather in greater numbers around villages regardless of location at night since their only real systems of defense tended to be a limited number of iron golems — perhaps Technoblade had done something, like equipped the iron golems with enchantments or something to make them hardier? He could see that, even if he wasn't quite sure how it would work. 

Regardless, that was less of a concern than what he'd set out to do today, so he dismissed the thought as they rapidly approached a few familiar landmarks. Despite himself, Tommy found his eyes scanning the treeline, curious to see if he could spot the arrow he buried into one of the tree trunks what felt like a million years ago. He couldn't, but that made sense; it was one arrow in one tree, and he was emerging from a forest. 

Seeing the village caused a rush of victorious energy, and he laughed for a second time even as the sound was lost to the wind, leaning forward a bit as the rushing air swept through his hair. He'd surely be quite a sight once he dismounted, but that was the benefit of shorter haircuts — he could just ruffle it, and he'd be fine. 

The village looked just as he remembered it — a brightly lit oasis in a wild sea of open grass, pinned by a forest and a further faded expanse that blurred into the background. He pulled lightly on Clementine's reigns, leading her into a slow repetitive circle instead of yanking her back in an attempt to force a stop; he'd learned not to do that a long time ago, when he'd very nearly been sent flying after yanking too hard in a fit of panic. His horse had almost bucked him off, and if it hadn't been for the fact that he'd secured his seat with rope — for safety, at Tubbo's insistence — he might have been seriously injured. 

Besides, Clementine didn't seem to mind. She came to a slow, gradual stop, and Tommy was free to hop off the saddle with a pleasant grin, careful to loop the lead around his hand so he wouldn't wrap it around her neck. When he tugged gently, she followed with neat, even steps. 

Perhaps it was because he was alone, but the village seemed a bit more splendid than it had on his last visit. The buildings that loomed overhead felt more like homes and businesses, and the soft-yet-foreign language of the villagers around him blended well with the bustle of farmers and workers alike. That same blacksmith was working on something else now — a set of gleaming iron armor, still rough and unfinished in the light of the sun. He wondered briefly what use iron armor served them; he'd yet to see any villagers arm themselves after all, but he supposed it couldn't hurt. 

Anyway, he shook his head. That wasn't what he was here for. He swept his gaze over the open area, leading Clementine carefully through the path with special care taken to avoid trampling on any toes. A few villagers had to duck their heads or turn at an odd angle but they seemed mostly unbothered otherwise, and even the farmers — who had initially shown a minor amount of hesitance at the arrival of a horse — relaxed considerably when Clementine passed by their food stalls without so much as a second glance. Tommy stifled another snicker; who needed regular old apples when you had a barrage of golden carrots waiting back home? 

Still, even if Clementine was uninterested, that didn't mean _he_ was. He took a moment before each stall, trying for even communication as he asked for prices, rifling through some of the emeralds he'd saved up himself. Most of them were decently reasonable — one emerald for four apples, two for ten — and those that weren't let him pass without much of an issue. By the end of his first pass, his bag was decently full; a bunch of apples, a couple carrots, and a bag of wheat seeds that he'd been given by a particularly old-looking merchant. They were wearing a farmer's hat, but from the state of their incredibly shaky hands he could only assume they'd been retired for some time. He'd been worried for a moment, but they smiled evenly at him and seemed fine otherwise, so at least he knew he wasn't being intimidating somehow. After all, his clothes were considerably cleaner than they had been before, and his old faded shirt had been replaced by Technoblade's hand-me-downs and a glimmering netherite chestplate, all of which in considerably better condition than anything else he previously owned; save for the bandages that still visibly lined his palms — and less visibly crawled up his arm — he was in better condition now than before. After taking a moment to reminisce, he wondered if perhaps _that_ was why the librarian had been so kind to him before. Maybe he ought to stop by and thank them, as much as he could anyway. 

He made his rounds and gathered what he could, taking special care to grab things that may add a bit of color to their diet — was that _beetroot? —_ as well as a couple loaves of warm bread. He set those in the deepest pocket of his bag, hoping that it would keep them at least mostly warm; but if not, he could always set them in front of the furnace for a little while. No big deal. 

By the time he finished the _second_ go — which took just a little longer than the first, since he decided to really take his time before heading to the library — the sun was decently high in the sky, and his bag was very nearly stuffed to the brim. His stockpile of emeralds had been reduced by at least a third, too. And sure, maybe he could have gotten away with asking Techno for them, but that would have defeated the whole purpose — if Tommy was going to do this, he was well fucking going to do it all himself. It was the most he could manage to express his gratitude at the moment, and he'd think of better things later on. 

He did however spare himself a single red apple, crunching into it idly with a flip of a flatter jewel. It was incredibly sweet, and the crisp refreshing flavor was welcome — it had been far too long since he'd had anything remotely sugary, save for the cloying potions he'd grown a little too familiar with these days. He savored it, even offered a little piece to Clementine, who took it only after he insisted a third time. Even then it was with almost clear reluctance, and he laughed; he saw a lot more of Technoblade's influence in her than he thought he would. In its own way, that was comforting. 

He strolled for a while, more for idle entertainment and to soak up the atmosphere than for anything concrete — Techno had expressed that he wanted a little time for himself too, and even if it was a joke he wasn't going to take any chances. Far be it for Tommy to deny him that right. 

The village was a very colorful place. Much more so than their cave anyway, or even the lush forest that existed outside of it — streaks of red, swaths of green and speckles of orange and brown. Grand banners, multicolored beds; it was all very _different_ even in its familiarity, something he was surprised he hadn't taken note of the first time. Now that he could, he would commit it all to memory; they'd probably be back sometime for one reason or another, and he didn't mind the downtime when it could be spent people-watching. 

He lingered at the entry of a little shop, clean galactic letters carved into a sign he could only barely read; _Fletcher's Station,_ with a cute little illustration of an arrow painted on top. Most of the shops were labeled that way, the only difference lay in the names, which varied by trade. 

In the end, he came across the library by accident. It was exactly how he remembered it too, with the only exception being that the doors were propped open by small sticks, and the air coming from the inside was pleasantly warm. At a second glance, he saw the faintest shimmer of purple and pink reflecting constantly across the glass. Enchanted windows, then? Something that kept the heat in? That was impressive — he'd have to let Technoblade know about that one if he didn't know already —

Wait. 

_Actually…_

As if a lock were to suddenly break open, an idea occurred to him. Tommy's lips split into a wide grin, and he reached for his remaining emeralds as he carefully tied Clementine up outside, eyes shining with excitement. He spared barely a passing glance to anything else, gaze and intent locked solely on the glass. Technoblade always had his cloak on these days, and he was almost always by the furnace if he wasn't busily working away at his new pet project — so what could be a better gift than something to keep the cave warm? Something that would perhaps help him adjust to life outside of the nether again — something peacefully soothing _,_ like warm bread and pleasant air. He already had the first one handled, but the second?..

His grip tightened on the drawstring of the bag, and he waved cheerily when the familiar librarian glanced up from their lectern, arching their eyebrow in an obvious, unspoken question. He took a deep breath, and imagined Technoblade _finally_ being able to sleep. 

He was more than prepared to hand over as many emeralds as that peace required. After all, he could always mine for more. 

+

By the time Tommy was all set to leave the village, the sun had not quite begun to set, but the light had just about passed mid-day. It was earlier than he initially meant to head back, sure, but the excitement of his new discovery was burning a hole in his pockets, so much so that he hardly cared that he'd handed over nearly half of his remaining emeralds. It was a fair trade in his opinion, since magic like that was probably fairly uncommon if he'd never heard of it even now — and since Technoblade hadn't applied that sort of thing to their base while still being cold enough to never remove his gloves, he could only assume the pig-man hadn't either. The thought of the nether doing more damage to Technoblade's stability than he thought made his stomach churn, but there was really no other answer, since even Schlatt had seemed alright with the temperature shift before. 

_Then again,_ a distant voice whispered, just loudly enough to be heard, _it wasn't like he talked to Schlatt for a while now._

Whatever. If this worked out, the ram-horned man would reap some of the benefits too, whether he liked it or not. So it was fine. 

_(It had to be.)_

Clementine seemed perfectly accommodating too, taking one of the golden carrots he offered her without protest to munch on as he untied her lead. He climbed on to her back as soon as they were clear of the village folk, and he only took a few moments to check that he had everything he needed before he urged her onward at a decently quick pace, although he was careful to avoid a gallop; he wanted this to be a surprise for Techno, and the man had an uncanny ability to detect dangerous incoming forces, whether it be for his own sake or Tommy's. 

Of course that meant that the ride back was a little slower than the first, but Tommy could and would gladly make that sacrifice. It wasn't quite late enough for mobs to pose a problem anyway — as evidenced by a few of the large spiders that passed without even a second glance in his direction — and Clementine was quick enough that they would be able to outrun any explosion if it came to that. Not that it would. He wouldn't let it. 

They broke into the treeline, then toward the river, then through another barrier of trees — it felt a little bit like an endless cycle, if he was being frank. But that was fine. The familiarity of it helped to calm some of his nerves, leveled out a little of his rapid breath until he could relish in the thought of getting back… 

Back _home._

Huh. 

_When had that happened?_

He clutched the shimmering set of books in his bag a little tighter to his person, trying to fight off the rising ache. It was a bittersweet thing, a mixture of confusion and… something. Then, slowly, it solidified into determination.

_He was heading back home._

+

If Tommy had to put a name to the feeling in his chest when he caught a glimpse of a familiar tree stump, it would probably end up being one of those strange words that Techno and Wilbur had been so fond of back before everything. Something poignant. Whatever it was, Tommy would probably forget it. 

_(That was a lie, and he knew it. There were many things he wished to forget, but nothing of those times. Not ever._

_…_

_But maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't hurt to try and live, too.)_

He dismounted Clementine in as much of a hurry as he could manage, leading her carefully and speedily around to try and avoid the places Techno could have spotted them from if he was looking. He probably wasn't, but Tommy was going to at least _try_ and make this a surprise. He locked Clementine in the pen, feeding her another golden carrot and an ironclad promise to bring her to the paddocks as soon as he was finished. He hopped the fence and snuck back down, barely able to stifle his own smile. He had so much to tell Techno about now — so many stupid, random anecdotes to share, all cradled in the embrace of his bandaged fingers and a loaf of fresh bread; in a bag of fruits and vegetables, in a glittering enchanted book. 

Tommy peeked briefly into one of the small openings in the doorway. He could only just barely make out the edge of Technoblade's cloak, peeking out from the entrance to the mines — he was probably sitting on the steps then, either working on something or sharpening his sword at a different angle. That worked for Tommy's goal, at least. As an afterthought, he slipped off his shoes — they could be remarkably loud against stone if he wasn't careful, even with the crackle of the furnace to cover him. The door opened, and the door closed. Thanks to well-kept hinges, it did him the favor of not making a creak. 

As he passed, the sound of his socked feet were utterly silent as they slid against frozen stone, he spotted some of Technoblade's armor — his chest-plate, helmet, and his leather combat gloves — all set on top of the crafting bench, deposited half-hazardly like it had been an afterthought to put them away at all. He made a mental note to set them aside later; he could always put them on the armour stand for him, once he gave him his gifts. Once he thanked him for everything that he'd done — for becoming a brother to him, in all but blood. 

_At last,_ he thought victoriously, _he had managed to sneak inside._

At last, he had made it back to a cave that was almost, if not already his home. After a long-yet-short journey, after a day of chaotic relief and impossible successes, he caught a proper look at the pig-man, who had indeed not been expecting his return, just as he'd hoped. 

Yes, at last he caught a glimpse of Technoblade, who had apparently _shed_ his cloak for the first time since his return from the nether, draped against the start of the downward staircase they'd built. 

He caught a glimpse of Technoblade, and the discarded bandages left half unraveled at his side, hand frozen in the motion of wrapping it against his exposed limb. He caught a glimpse of the man who had become his closest friend, over the past few months. A glimpse at the pig-man who had become his family. 

Of him, and of the sickening, befouled slate grey that outlined his veins, from his exposed shoulder all the way down to his fingertips, drawing tattoo-like black ink lines that crept up from his still-bandaged — _still?_ — torso, sneaking up from white fabric and embedded in his skin, snaking up to his neck, up his fingers. His _previously covered_ neck. His _previously gloved_ hands. 

Black veins. Pale skin. Infected. _Poisoned._

No, Tommy's thoughts said — not a whisper, but a sentence. Not an unfamiliar voice, but his _own_ — shockingly clear, as if speaking at full volume, just barely below a ringing scream. No, not poisoned. 

_Oh,_ he thought, frozen in place by both Technoblade's head as it swung wildly in his direction, clearly startled, and his own punishing, sudden realization. He didn't have the presence of mind to relish that, his… his…

 _(What. His victory?_ The voice was still gone, but for all the snide disgust in the tone, he could barely recognize it as his own.)

Because oh. 

_Oh._

_Technoblade's been withered._

\-----

+

\-----  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... realizations, huh? :) 
> 
> A lot of you seemed to figure out that something was wrong early on! I was hoping for a satisfying plot-twist, but I'm not certain if it came out the way I wished for it to haha. At least Tommy got Clementine in this AU, right? 
> 
> Detailed Summary: 
> 
> Tommy sets off for the village after receiving permission — to his shock — to take one of Technoblade's horses with him. He picks an unnamed horse and names it Clementine. 
> 
> He ventures into the village and buys a lot of different items, including apples and wheat seeds to increase their food options. But he also comes across an enchantment that could allow them to insulate heat in the cave, something he buys due to Technoblade always having his cloak on. (He must be cold, right?) 
> 
> Tommy returns, has a few realizations on the way, and comes to one more:
> 
> Techno was withered in the nether.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was almost funny, the way things could change so much with just a simple shift in perspective. 
> 
> Or
> 
> How a nightmare came to life, and the aftermath of painful realizations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Edit: This entire godforsaken chapter un-formatted itself TWICE. And it's the LONGEST ONE. I've gone halfway mad fixing it over and over, so forgive any typos! If you see any, please let me know.]
> 
> I'll be honest, I had a bit of a laugh at the absolute betrayal portrayed in the comments last time. I felt bad about it too, but I was surprised and glad to see that most people enjoyed it anyway. Hopefully this chapter will provide more of the same.
> 
> In more chaotic and surreal news, this chapter is 9.3k words long! 9,300!?! What the hell?! And that pushed us to the 95k mark for total words! 
> 
> That officially marks this as not only the longest chapter ever written for this story, but as the longest singular thing I've ever written period. Please relish it, dear readers, because my hands were not happy with me after I wrote this one, so this won't happen again any time soon, haha. 
> 
> I want to take one final moment before this starts to thank you all, yet again, for the absolutely incredible amounts of support and love both this fic and I have gotten. We're growing closer and closer to the ending stretch, and I am truly grateful for the fact that I ended up posting this fic of mine — I almost didn't, but I'm glad I did. 
> 
> And as always, comments, kudos, and feedback of any kind mean the world to me <3 
> 
> Please enjoy.

\----- 

#

\-----

Whether the world believed it or not, there was a simple truth. When Technoblade was a young man, he had aspired to be a farmer. 

To say young implied that he was ancient, and despite what he may say, he was not nearly as detached from that particular reality as he wished to be — but that didn't change the fact that he felt terribly, terribly old these days. His bones rattled with the cold, strained beneath the weight of his cloak as it dragged his sword arm down, down, down into the ground, leaving trails of crimson streaking through dirt and snow. Whether the crimson left with him or not became irrelevant over time, a spark that he let be as it desired. With time, it changed from a spark to a roaring flame. With a little more, it became a bloodied legend, a brand carved into the worlds he left asunder. 

But that didn't change the fact that when Technoblade was young, his favorite tools were a sturdy stone hoe, and a bucket full of water. 

There was something childish about those memories, something separate from the obvious — of course they were childish, he was a kid — and the mundane. He recalled, even now, the days where his only worries amounted to the kind of soil he would use in his next attempt at a farm. The alkaline nature of the dirt, the proximity to water and sulfur. The air quality, the plot of the land he had to work with — the basic stuff. The ins and outs of creation, gentle and kind and quiet. Good work. Simple work. The first of his phases before the anarchy. 

Even as things changed, as the world around him shifted and spiked and curled, turning its many heads onto itself and others with the vigor of an enraged hydra. Even as challengers rose from his shadows and plunged daggers towards his shoulder blades, even as he inhaled dust and spat wads of red, he remembered. He remembered that the strength in his downward swing came from the force it took to till the dirt. Remembered that he knew how to avoid arrows from his mediocre attempts at defense systems to keep out the animals, the moles, the rats. He remembered. He ached. 

At some point, he became the farmer he always wanted to be. It was the only war he fought that didn't drag the blood from his bones, didn't soak the ground in anything but water and fertilizer. That war drained him in different ways, beaten down by an unforgiving sun with nails so crusted over by dirt that he swore they'd never be clean again. He emerged victorious, as he always did — but he came out the other side with a weary smile on his face, and a heavy thump given to the back of a kid with a bright smile and a challenging laugh that he might one day call a friend. They spit something about vengeance, about a rematch, but it was tinged in playful abandon, in joy instead of sorrow. It was the first time he heard those things in a long time where he smiled instead of scoffed, welcomed it with a smirk. 

Still, it changed the way it felt to till the dirt for a while. The fatigue clung to him, reminded him of the shifting tides. Perhaps that could be blamed for his newfound reluctance. He didn't know. It passed in a blink all the same, just like the rest. There is no time for relaxation, not with the looming rise of new, new, new. He fought tooth and nail for so long that they ached with disuse when he stood idle, and he had to grit his teeth together in an effort to dull his fangs. Things fell to silence, but he had long since learned to be distrustful of the dark. 

He wasn't sure when that fear had faded like the rest, much less why. He wasn't sure when he stopped doing double takes over his own shoulders, when he stopped stooping down and examining the dirt for tracks he wasn't certain he'd find. Instead, he reached for his crossbow and shot off projectiles into the gaping, warped maws that made up explosive mobs, pulled a kid back from the brink and tied up the knot with the dredges of his crusted cloak. Old habits die hard to be certain, but new ones hit harder. 

(If he was asked to say when it all went wrong — no, not quite wrong, but _different_ — he would pinpoint a day, just as mundane as the others, when he had grown too bored of the weight of his crown.)

He'd been careless. 

That wasn't right — even he knew that much. Of all things, Technoblade could and would admit that he was anything but careless in anything he did, no matter how much he aspired to the contrary. He was meticulous no matter the task, efficient no matter the motive. Determined, no matter how much he wished to let go. 

He'd not been careless. He'd been _rushed._

He'd stopped for just a moment too long, missed just one blindside for half a second before he reeled backward in defense. He'd hesitated for half a second, lost in half a thought. But he'd learned that too, over his endless years. He'd learned very quickly that it only ever took that long to end a legacy. He'd killed more with less, done worse with better. And despite himself, despite everything… 

Technoblade had almost forgotten what it was like to slip up. To be hit. 

To be _withered._

(Of all things, a mob. With a stone sword. He would have laughed, had he the time.)

#

He gasped for air, stumbled back a step and staggered against the wall as old bones crumbled to useless dust. The skull remained intact though, idle and mocking, endlessly grinning. He raised his foot, but it slammed into the brick just barely a centimeter shy — he thought the better of it, of shattering such a precious resource. He had no plans of making a Wither any time soon, but there was value in an item even without a use. Value in the threats one could create with the right materials and the right intent. 

He glared down instead, eyes locked on the place where his gloved hand was pressed against his torso, the single crack in his armor where his chestplate met his trousers. When he peeled it away a string of horrific black ooze clung to his fingers, and the ache rocketed like poison up his side. 

No, he thought to himself, rage long-tied up in his chest threatening to burst at the seams before he stomped it back down, not like. It was. 

Withering was a nasty affliction; you didn't need to be a soldier or nether traveller to know that. Parents in particularly harsh circles took a kind of sick relief in relaying horrifying tales to their children, warning them away from the glittering depths of lava and smoke. The air in the nether was thick with it after all, smelled of sulfur and ashes and the remnants of glowstone that crumbled at a touch. When he inhaled it stung, and when he coughed it came out tinged with black. Within a few hours, the withering would spread to his veins, draw the nutrients from his skin and bring the pallor of it to paper. He'd seen it himself — watched as plenty of his temporary fellows gained strange, almost tattoo-like streaks that climbed from the wound to their necks. He was lucky — if he'd been struck closer to his head or his heart, he would have been in far more danger than he was now. 

He fumbled around in his bag, unceremoniously popped the top off one of his healing potions, and dumped it all down his throat in one go. It wouldn't do much — it wasn't strong enough — but it would have to do for the time being, so he tried to relish the burst of warmth and soothed nerves while it lasted, forcing himself to his feet. He needed to be able to get back to the portal, and for that he needed to move. The wound would only get worse as he walked though, as wither wounds tended to do. Had he the time or the energy, he would have spent it cursing at the crimson sky — ceiling, more like — but he didn't, so he focused instead on carving out an exit from the walls. 

Techno was lucky enough to have a few more health potions already on hand of course, but they could only combat the problem long enough for short bursts of travel. The side where he had been infected was somehow impossibly numb at the impact site now, but it rocketed pain up his side with every errant step. He gritted his teeth as he walked, gloved fingers wrapped tight around the hilt of his sword. He didn't have the strength for the axe, wouldn't unless he gave himself over to what he knew, what he remembered. He refused to do that — not now. Perhaps in another world, another plane — another little set of old battle scars and tinkertoys, dredged in betrayals instead of miscommunication. Maybe then, he would. 

But for now, he suffered. He inhaled and the pain rocketed up his body like a physical stab wound, and he burned the ache into his memory. Once it passed, he would not feel it again. 

By some miracle — and trust the oddity of that, because Technoblade did not believe in miracles — he had left getting the blaze rods for last, so his focus could be placed almost entirely on getting back to the portal. That was what mattered the most. By his estimate, he had to have been gone for at least two days longer than he'd said he would be, and his journey was slowed down substantially by the rate the wither was affecting his body. 

Several times, he had to stop and dig out a space in the wall, just wide enough to stoop down and wrap a few bandages carefully around his abdomen, starting just below the wound near his belt and ending just below his chest and pectoral muscle, which had thankfully been left unharmed until the wither spread. The wound ached, tender like a bruise that covered a broken bone, but he couldn't afford to show this to Tommy. Not when he had been so terrified of the nether to begin with. Thankfully, most of his body was covered by fabric or armor, and whatever was exposed could be hidden easily with his cloak if he was careful. So until he was able to weather the storm, he would have to hide as much of it as he could from the kid. He stumbled more than once too, and every time, as soon as he slammed into the ground it knocked the wind from his lungs, pushed up a rapid series of choked off inhales. The thickness of the air didn't help either, like swallowing mass amounts of sulfur that dried out his tongue. Even still, he shoved his hand against the ground, dug his fingers into brackish dirt as he pulled himself up. He could take short bursts of rest, but he couldn't afford to wait. 

As much as he hated to admit it, there was absolutely no way he would be able to fight the way he wished to in this condition. He relied upon two main aspects of his fighting style to remain agile — strength and speed. With both neatly out of commission, he was going to have to shift focuses to something less strenuous. Maybe an upgrade for his crossbow; something that would let him do more damage without having to move. Long range fighting had never been his cup of rancid tea, but he hadn't come as far as this without learning to adapt. 

Getting withered was the absolute last thing he should have allowed, but now that it happened he didn't have the time to linger on it. He had to try and strive for a clear head, dig his fingers through the plumes of smoke until he could see where he was going, and then some. That was his role — that was what they needed. What he needed. 

(Techno didn't know when that had become so important to him, what Tommy needed. Hell, he didn't know when Tommy had become so important at all. But he saw his face, his wide, slightly clouded set of blue eyes, and it was enough to force another set of steps.

He was going to survive this, he snarled to the open air, allowing just once for his expression to snap down the middle, he had no choice.) 

#

The first thing Technoblade felt when he emerged from the nether portal was a rush of shockingly, painfully clean air, a mouthful of mint extract pressed directly against his tongue. It was all he could do not to physically gasp, forced off balance by the sudden shift in temperature and air quality. He was usually able to get past that particular shift within a few seconds, but his head felt slightly foggy as it was, and every breath he took ached just enough to split his focus, vision blurred by his exhaustion. 

Maybe that was why he didn't hear it — maybe that was why it took him off guard. Either way, he wasn't prepared for Tommy to come crashing suddenly down the stairs, eyes wide and — bandaged? _Why was he..?_

He had little time to think about it though, because the kid bolted toward him faster than Technoblade thought was even possible, launching himself through the air with a speed he couldn't afford to avoid. He crashed into him and Techno stumbled back in an attempt to keep them upright, but he expected far too much out of his withered side, and his leg gave out under him as they both fell to the ground in a raucous crash of metal against stone. His newfound air was punched forcefully from his lungs, a stab of agony right on cue to accompany it. 

"Urph—" 

_"Techno!"_

Tommy's voice was loud. Louder, he thought in that moment, then it had been in a very long time — and it was full of surging, desperate relief that burned like acid against his skin, heavy pressure that ached with expectation and worry. He had been right — his leaving for such a long time was far too soon. He could only imagine what would happen if Tommy knew. He squeezed his eyes shut and took in a shaking breath, slowly patted the kid on the back, urging his hands to remain as steady as he needed them to be, and pointedly ignored the pain that came from where Tommy's weight pressed against his wound, only just separated by the barrier of his bag. He would bear it for the moment — his repentance, he supposed, for being gone for so long. 

He exhaled slowly, and accepted his mistake. 

"... I'm guessin' you missed me?" He said.

His voice was steady, only barely strained from the pain. He'd take it. 

That would have to be enough. 

#

It took him too long to brew the regeneration potions. 

As annoyed as he was with that fact, he was grateful that Tommy seemed to be sleeping more easily — it was nigh impossible to brew the potions when he was awake, because that would inevitably draw questions, and that would only cause cracks in the thin layer of composure he was finally reaching. 

Techno knew, of course, that Tommy wasn't fragile. Not in the ways that others had been, strangled endlessly by silence and ripped from their bodies until they were barely present at all. Many of those he'd seen had lost less than Tommy had, and they still never regained their footing. He knew that Tommy was stronger than most gave him credit for; hell, perhaps even Technoblade himself was guilty of that. But as he chugged a regeneration potion, swirled the rest with absent, exhausted eyes, he drew blood from his resolve. 

He had taken far too much time escaping from the nether, and the withering had progressed too much for one potion to do the trick on it's own. A cow could help, but they weren't common in the biome they inhabited, and he didn't know if he could make it to the plains yet. So here he sat, stuck in limbo, with irritation buzzing like bees beneath his skin. Or perhaps that was the potion, battling the rot like a loyal guard dog against the storm. 

He exhaled, slowly. 

It would work, eventually. Tommy needed it to, perhaps even more so than Technoblade himself. Would, anyway. Once he knew. 

But when Techno had emerged from that damned portal, when he'd looked at Tommy's new scars and seen the near manic shine of relief in his eyes, much less the awe that glowed like lava when he reaped his spoils, the admission had clogged like glue in his throat. 

Not yet. He would let Tommy have that, his relief. Even he knew enough to tell that the kid was due for it, and he wasn't about to yank that free. The universe was cruel, unfair and unflinching, and Tommy was only now beginning to breathe. So he would bury it, delay the inevitable. Just a little while longer, where he could prepare and maintain — make his upgrades, craft his fireworks. Brew his potions, make breakfast. 

Just a few more seconds of peace.

#

Of course, the world often cared very little for the whims of those who inhabited it. No matter the cause, no matter the infamy — irony, truly, was the harshest force to resist. 

Tommy was quite a sight, although certainly not more so than Technoblade himself. Still Tommy, with his tattered shoes in one hand, his bag clutched tight in the other and pressed close enough not to make a sound; all in all, Technoblade was honestly kind of impressed. He'd only just barely heard a sound, and even that had been enough for him to dismiss it; he must be getting even more careless, in his current condition no less. As if to mock him, his arm twinged in phantom pain, and he resisted the urge to mutter something foul under his breath. He wasn't sure if Tommy would handle another moment like that. 

And that was another thing that he needed to deal with; Tommy's stare. The kid hadn't moved an inch since he realized he was there, hadn't even taken half a second to blink, and Techno knew damn well why. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered his arm, the spool of bandages resting in his opposite hand. He tried not to notice how Tommy's eyes failed to follow the motion, stuck on the black streaks he knew snaked up his neck. 

"..."

"Techno," Tommy's voice was faint, not quite a rasp. Despite himself, despite what and who he was, Technoblade was shocked to find that he almost, almost flinched. The realization that brought was enough to spur him into movement again, to force aching lungs to intake another breath. 

"Tommy," he said, "you've gotta believe me, it isn't —" _what it looks like,_ his brain supplied the cliché sarcastically, which he slammed back immediately because _now was not the time;_ "— as bad as it looks." 

_Yeah, because that was better, surely._

(He just wanted one more moment of peace.)

The hysterical half-gasp that left Tommy's lungs in that moment may have been a laugh at some point, but it grated on Technoblade's ears with the high, near manic note of it, just barely smothered beneath a layer of shock. Tommy, even now, had become even more of an open book. He could practically track the thoughts as they flitted behind his eyes, and Techno wasn't even particularly good at that kind of thing. 

"Oh yeah? Yeah, big man?" Tommy choked out slowly, tone leaping from fever pitch to faint apathy like a pinball machine, "you — really? It's not — not that bad. _Of course not._ Of course it… _fuck."_

Tommy's shoes went crashing to the ground as he buried his face in his hands, and the sound was deafening compared to the relative silence. Techno's lips pulled into a heavy frown, and he wondered faintly if it would be a good idea to move yet. Probably not. He settled for tugging his cloak a little closer, until he could cover his shoulders. At the very least, he needed Tommy to start looking at him, not the veins — the pain was present, sure, but Tommy couldn't afford to slip back into catatonia. 

"Tommy—" he tried, but Tommy's fist shot out abruptly and slammed into the wall, and Techno's sentence cut short. 

"Tommy!" Loud. Harsher than he meant it to be, especially now, but there was no other option available to him but force, so he marched forward and yanked the kid back, surprised yet again by the total lack of resistance. 

He didn't bother checking the hand himself, he just popped open one of the healing potions — he kept them close now, considering his position — and pushed it toward Tommy's face, just as he had at the beginning. Not without force, but not insistently either; a middle ground that he'd found worked well with instruction. The look Tommy gave him would have burned someone vulnerable to it, but Techno's expression remained the same, and he eventually drank it without a word. Techno stepped back immediately, made way for what he knew would pass, and the bottle went flying against the wall toward the opposite end of the room from where they stood, Tommy's newly healed hand clenched into a tight fist. 

"No," Tommy choked, "I'm sorry. I'm _sorry. Fuck._ How is that — goddamned — why —" 

He looked like he was seconds away from ripping out his hair in wild clumps, but just as Techno was about to reach out for a second time, Tommy's arms dropped heavy to his sides like they were made of lead, a wooden puppet with cut strings and a body welded with steel. His head tipped back far enough that Techno wondered if he'd fall off balance, but he didn't. He took in a breath so sharp it cut through the air, and then he breathed a sentence so quietly that he barely caught it. 

"Fuck," Tommy cursed for the millionth time, the sound slow and slurred with a mixture of sorrow and — what? Not anger, but something else. "— Techno... " 

"I can handle this," Techno said quietly, certainty bleeding as much into his tone as he would allow — he could, he would. He was going to be fine — but it did nothing for the state of Tommy's hunched shoulders, crooked at an angle so awkward it looked painful. That same dry laugh came a second time, a cross between a sob and a wheeze. He tugged his shirt back up over his half-wrapped bandages. He couldn't do anything about the ones that traced lines across his fingers. 

"We — fucking hell, we match," Tommy's voice warbled for a moment, and the joke — was that a joke? Neither of them were laughing — fell painfully flat. The grim set of Technoblade's mouth refused to shift, the atmosphere almost heavier than what he'd inhaled in the nether. Tommy's hands — newly healed and still bandaged — flexed and relaxed a few times. 

"Techno," Tommy managed again, voice strangled by strain as he repeated the same phrase he'd started with; "you… please tell me that you aren't withered." 

Techno didn't speak. Not for a long, drawn out moment. He didn't lie. Wouldn't, not even if he begged. 

"Tommy," he tried eventually, trying for soothing, gentle, even. Technoblade didn't do gentle, but he tried. It seemed he'd been doing that a lot lately; trying. This time, Tommy didn't interrupt, so he continued. 

"All I need is time," he said, slow and steady, because something about this was different from before — from when he could just speak the way he always did and use it as a lifeline. Something about Tommy was different this time, and it urged him to quiet. "I just need to brew some more regeneration potions. Maybe find a cow, since that'll speed things up. For the most part, I'm doin' fine." 

Well, fine was a little bit of an exaggeration. But he wasn't about to delve into that now. 

"You're full of shit, Technoblade." 

Techno blinked, surprised. Tommy sputtered. 

"Not — _fuck._ I don't — I don't mean," Tommy's voice somehow managed to sound apologetic, and even Technoblade could grasp how absurd that was, but he continued before he could get a word in, and he wasn't about to interrupt him; "I don't mean I don't _believe_ — I just—" 

Tommy turned to him. Turned and properly faced him, eyes locked on with a shocking amount of clarity, even if it seemed like a storm was brewing underneath. It burst forth all at once, words instead of screams. 

"You didn't _tell_ me." 

The sound came out broken, fractured and splintered at the edges like a weakened piece of rotting wood. Techno felt pinned by that question, by that stare, by the accusation. He was hurt. Tommy was hurt, even Technoblade could see that clear as day.

But he was _present._ And that, of all things, took Technoblade back the most. 

"... I—"

But he didn't have anything to continue that sentence with. He was, for the first time in a very long time, at a loss for words. At a loss for which ones he could, should, would express. He knew why. He knew exactly why. He knew, because he saw exactly what it was he wanted to avoid swirling like mist around Tommy's head. 

What a strange world it was. First a withering wound, then picking and choosing kindness. What had become of him, the warrior with too much blood in his cloak? 

Abruptly, Technoblade was reminded of just how unsuited he was for the environment he'd been placed in. The status quo tilted on it's axis, turned upside down with only a single rope to tether the earth to place. He was not suited for these things, but he'd tried. He'd been trying, for all the good it'd done. 

He was more than familiar with becoming what he detested. As much as they may protest otherwise, as much as they may have the right, Techno was familiar with the sensation of embodying everything he wished not to be. It was a strange thing, then, to realize that he regretted it. At least somewhat. 

(The peace had been too short. It was always too short. He knew that better than anyone.)

He spoke. 

.

.

.

_"I'm sorry."_

\-----

#

\-----

.

\-----

+

\-----

In the wake of an apology, the wind tended to change. At least, that was how the tall tales tended to go. 

It certainly felt that way to Tommy, who could count the times he had heard Technoblade apologize on one hand, and the times that he'd meant it on half of the remainder. Still, it felt a little like someone had clamped two hands over his ears and rattled his head like an instrument, scrambled him up and left something burnt on the outside. The apology, in that case, felt like some kind of balm — oil, whatever. He was in no state of mind to be working with wordplay. 

His entire chest ached. His body ached. 

Even though he posed the question, he thought that he knew. That he knew why Technoblade hadn't told him, and he dreaded that he was right, because if he was, it was for the same goddamn reason everyone else had kept shit from him for so long. Because he was stupid, or a kid, or because he couldn't handle it. 

Techno, even when Tommy was at his worst, had never treated him like that. Not ever. Not once. He'd held him upright, sure. Treated him, definitely. Had an infinite amount of patience that never seemed to run dry, even when Tommy's nightmares consumed more of him than he thought possible, leaving him an empty husk lost in painful memories. But he'd never, not once, treated Tommy like he was incapable of doing anything, even when he _was._

It felt, for the briefest of seconds, like Technoblade had come to the same realization that everyone else he trusted had. That Tommy had. That he was useless, inept — unable to help or make progress, to do anything but hinder everyone he loved and cared about. His greatest fear came to fruition, and it had taken all he had not to explode at the mere thought of it. It had taken everything in him to remain silent, and even then he had thrown his energy into a projectile, watched as the glass shattered far away from both of their feet. At least he had the presence of mind for that. 

But perhaps it was the trying nature of the months he'd spent in this cave. Perhaps it was the fact that he'd spent so long in "crisis-mode" that he'd grown accustomed to it — or perhaps it was the part of him that held a stranglehold on his composure, desperate not to slip back into the hell of his own creation that he had been trapped in for so long. Perhaps it was many things. Perhaps it was none of them.

But suddenly, Tommy understood. 

Tommy understood very abruptly and yet so slowly that he could drown in it. He realized — confirmed, perhaps — that Technoblade was not the same. He wasn't the same as the others, at least not in intentions. And philosophical bullshit could talk about the meaninglessness of intentions all they wanted, but knowing that? It meant something to Tommy. It had to, or he would crumble to pieces again, and he refused. 

It helped too, his brain supplied, whether it be for habitual conditioning's sake or otherwise, not without a bit of reluctant, painful wonder. It helped to know there was good intent there. Even if he couldn't feel it. Even if he was still, against his wishes, angry. Upset. _Scared._

"..." 

He took in a deep breath, ran the scratchy bandages over his face until it felt raw. And then he looked up, fighting for composure. 

"Stay here," he said to the man who'd long since become his family; "stay here and don't you dare fucking move, do you hear me?" 

Technoblade blinked, looking almost taken aback. Tommy gestured more aggressively toward the bed, and he slowly sat down on it, brows furrowed. Tommy could have laughed if his lungs would give him the air for it, but he settled for shoving his bag into a corner, intent to deal with it later. He dug around inside it, pulled out a handful of wheat. 

"I'm going to find a cow," Tommy declared, tone booking no room for argument; "and I'm going to put Clementine away. And… and we're going to _talk."_

Because if he had learned anything, god, if he had learned anything at all, it was that no matter what they did, no matter what they may do… 

_Communication._

That was what was most important if he wanted to protect what he had left. And the world could very well fuck right the hell off if they wanted to pry that from his cold, dead hands. If they wanted to get to what he had now, he would just have to be stronger. And he could be. He could. He had to be. 

_Go ahead and try,_ he challenged distantly as he grabbed blindly for another lead, pushing for confidence that he wasn't sure he felt; _I fucking dare you._

Nobody answered, and that was all the better. Tommy wasn't sure what he would do if someone had. 

+

He found a cow, and he put Clementine back. Not technically in that order. 

If he was going to get technical about it, it was really more like the first happened halfway through the second. He'd been leading Clementine toward the invisible door, seconds away from reaching for the button, when he heard a faint moo. That was rare enough considering the biome, even more so since the sun was technically really starting to go down now. Peaceful mobs didn't tend to last very long in dark, open spaces — whilst zombies and the like didn't prey on them typically, they would if there was no other "food" source available in the area. Over time, most of them learned to travel only in the open plains, where they could run at their leisure. Still, considering the buzzing energy that he had mostly contained in his chest, he felt it was probably a better idea to take the given opportunity before he accidentally tugged too hard on Clementine's lead. He tied her to a fence post and went to find the cow — the latter of which was just… in the forest. Aimlessly munching on grass. 

He coaxed it with wheat, then hooked it by the horn. Leading it back was easy enough, and he kept it from struggling by periodically feeding it a little more, eventually able to lock it into their training grounds pen. It wasn't like they'd be using it for a while anyway, and the cow needed to be kept safe — even though the zombies hadn't been around, he couldn't afford to let his guard down. He hurried back down afterward and put Clementine back in her paddock, patting her side apologetically when he accidentally poked her in the side as he removed her saddle. He fed her a golden carrot and could only hope he'd been forgiven — he really, truly could not take any more strain today. Not yet. 

All in all, it felt like he sped through his tasks in a blur, barely aware enough to be attentive to his surroundings. Maybe he had, the painful light at the end of the tunnel perhaps lending him temporary strength. Either way, he didn't care. 

When he slipped back inside, he only barely managed to avoid slamming the door. His hands shook from the effort, but he ran them aggressively through his hair to try and burn off the energy. Techno, as it turned out, hadn't elected to move from the spot Tommy forced him into. Whether that was due to his harsh demand or simply the short time frame he'd taken to complete what he wanted to do was beyond him, and he wasn't certain that he cared. He sat on the stone bench that Technoblade always occupied, took a deep breath — 

And was promptly interrupted by a hacking, wheezing cough. 

His eyes shot wide open, and he watched in horror as Techno doubled over, coughing hard into his hand with his expression twisted in — pain? Disgust? It was kind of hard to tell with him, and equally distressing either way. 

"Techno?!" 

All upset forgotten, Tommy bolted over and reached out. Whether it was to humor him or not, Techno didn't protest as he grasped at his shoulders, pulled the cloak back a little to give him space to breathe. Didn't do much of anything except cough, and cough, and cough. Tommy felt like he may be sick right with him, like his own stomach was infected with wither and rot. He knew it was panic, he knew, but that didn't stop him from feeling like he didn’t. 

_Fuck,_ Tommy thought with a pang of fear (and guilt, god so much guilt), _how long had Techno forced himself to wear that cloak to hide the veins? How hard had it been to breathe?_ In all the time that he'd spent with him post-nether return, Techno had only ever cleared his throat into his hand. Never coughed. Apparently, he hadn't let himself. 

As if to make up for that deficit now though, Techno's coughing fit was awful. He hacked hard into his hand for a good minute, and by the time it ended, he was breathing decently heavily. Labored, like he'd run and been exhausted like a normal person. 

"I'm fine," he rasped — and holy shit, that was an entirely different problem in itself, but at least Tommy could help with that one — nodding briefly as Tommy offered him a bottle of water. He sipped at it twice before chugging half of it, exhaling heavily, and Tommy wondered for what felt like the millionth time how he hadn't seen it. How he hadn't noticed the overcompensation of it all. Techno had always been a hard worker, near obsessive, even. But the past week or so had been something else entirely, spurred by a nightmare turned flesh, and he hadn't had a clue. 

"I'm okay," he repeated, clearer now, and it became abruptly clear to Tommy that he believed it, at least to a degree; "you — ahem — said you wanted… to talk." 

_Yes, talk. Not choke._ Tommy took stock of the seconds Techno needed between heaves, and he understood — for what felt like the fiftieth time today — why he had never let himself hack like that before. It was slow to start, slower to stop. He would have noticed. 

(He should have.) 

Tommy frowned, but he settled back into his claimed seat, arms pulled tight against his chest. He was upset. He was, and he hated himself for it — but he also had learned what meant more to him. The paltry edge of pride, or the health of his closest friend-turned-family. 

"... you need to rest first," he said, after a moment. "Lay down or something." 

He expected resistance. He expected to direct his buzzing energy at vehement denial. But instead of any of that, Technoblade slowly shed his cloak, pulled back the covers, and — get this —

Laid down. 

All without a word. 

Tommy blinked, defused for the second time in as many minutes. 

"... right." 

Tommy's voice sounded strange, like he'd been submerged underwater but simultaneously given a set of headphones that repeated his words back to him — an underwater echo chamber. 

"..." 

He wanted to talk. He really, really did. But the more he stared at Technoblade, the less those words came to him. The more he searched, the farther they flew away, just like the wisps of his terrible, terrible dreams. 

(In hindsight, he wasn't sure how he missed it. Any of it.)

Technoblade's skin was horrifically pale — paler than it had been before — and without the protection of his cloak, the black veins were on open display, creeping up like tiny venomous snakes. Tommy had a horrifying vision from a while ago, remembered the way black shadow had crept in and swallowed up a pair of shining yellow eyes. He shuddered, and shoved that thought away. 

"... Tomm— " 

"Go to _sleep,_ Technoblade." 

Tommy cut him off, but the words didn't come out as harshly as he wanted them to. Maybe he wasn't capable of that — of putting up that front. Not for this. Once again, there was no reply to the negative. No denial, no outward refusal. A different silence. Strained with illness and labored breaths. For a while, Tommy wondered if he actually slept the way he urged. 

One second. Another. 

A minute. An hour. 

.

.

.

And then, just as easily:

"Do you know what a hero is, Tommy?"

The question stopped Tommy mid-breath, brows pinching together in a mixture of confusion and mild irritation as he shook himself to awareness. He wasn't asleep, but he had definitely spaced out to some degree. After a moment though, he exhaled. He pressed down that spark of anger and stamped it out with newfound determination. There was no sign of condescension in Technoblade's voice as he spoke, he reminded himself. No teasing in the question. He sounded completely serious — and despite the almost irrational nature of it, Tommy felt obliged to answer, if nothing else than in a desperate attempt to connect it with the usual nature of the downed man. If he couldn't, the consequences would suffocate him. 

"... I don't know."

It was half honest, and he was just spiteful enough to leave it there — just scared enough to start. 

Tommy's definition of a hero had changed a lot over the years. Honestly, it seemed like his choices always ended up being terrible ones — Wilbur's dulled eyes came to mind just as an emotionless mask did, and he flinched visibly as he forced both ideas away, thankful for only half a moment that Techno wasn't looking at him until he remembered why. He tried again, tried to think without being pulled back down into the abyss. 

If he had to hazard a guess? Even now, the first figure to pop up insistently in his brain was Technoblade himself — and as absolutely furious as he was at the pig-man right now, he knew that wasn't the extent of it. He was still hurt of course; he still felt like he'd been left out of the loop, like he was fragile, and maybe he was, but fuck if he didn't want to just be useful for once. He was also still angry at himself; for not knowing, for not looking, hell, for arguably being the reason Techno had gotten himself hurt in the first place, even if the pig-man would never say. He didn't know what would have happened if Techno hadn't been in a rush to return, but his traitorous brain seemed determined to flood itself with every possible configuration that would be better than this. 

Better than _withering._

If it wasn't painful enough as it was, Tommy was increasingly obviously becoming agonizingly anxious. It burned like his entire body had been set aflame, although it had been given a bit of time to cool after he'd forced Technoblade to finally lay down. If he'd known it would take something like this to get the man to finally use the bed and rest, he would have never wished so fervently for him to do so. With every cough that Techno wheezed out he felt his entire body shudder, half certain that he'd see Techno turn to graying dust when he dared look back. Then he started thinking about how he must have suffered, trying to subdue his symptoms and tough it out whilst also acting like nothing at all was amiss. Even like this, even while withering, Techno had been first and foremost concerned with Tommy's welfare. 

The person in question — who had been silent for an elongated period even for him — slowly tilted his head back. He tapped it against the headboard, and Tommy's eyes were drawn immediately to the blackened veins that marked his skin like cracks, only just barely visible at the junction of his exposed shoulder and running lines down his hand. He was bandaged now, but Tommy knew damn well that they were wrapped all the way down his torso. At the memory of his first glimpse of that brackish wound, he felt like throwing up for real. They were so obvious, and he could only wonder if they had always been that way, hidden by the fluff of a cloak and the thick leather of a glove. He swallowed it down, dug his fingernails into his newfound willpower.

(Had the lines always been that clear, or had it gotten worse in the time he'd been ignorant of it? He didn't know which would be better, which of the two evils would offer a better outcome.)

In the end, like always, it was Techno's voice that snapped him free of his memories. 

"I've never known what a hero is, Tommy. I've certainly never been one." 

His admission was low, crackled from pain and exhaustion. But even so his face remained impassive, marred only by his pale skin and the dark purple of his eyebags. 

"They say all kinds of things about it — tell all kinds of stories about kings and warriors, whatever. I'd know. All of it's way too romanticized." 

_He would,_ Tommy thought quietly to himself, his spite rising up once more on the behalf of the man who seemingly held none; _they called him The Blood God and left him when he'd gotten what they wanted. And Tommy…_

 _God,_ he remembered suddenly, anger leaving him pained; _He'd almost been the same, back then. Back when he had been "The Blade"._ How much would he have taken, if Technoblade allowed it? Would it be more than he'd done now, unintentional as it may have been? 

"But," Techno continued, heedless; "if I had to choose one now…" 

His gaze shifted. And despite his pale skin, despite the thin line of sweat that arose from the pain, despite, despite, _despite…_

Techno's eyes looked crystal clear as he looked at Tommy, half a wry smile on his face. Defiant, but of what Tommy had no clue.

"Don't go expectin' me to repeat this, Tommy… 

But I think you wouldn't be too terrible of a choice." 

.

.

.

_Wait._

Tommy looked back up, blinked his hazy eyes and dragged himself back to reality. But by the time he did Techno's exhausted eyes had slipped shut, and for the first time in Tommy's memory, he watched as their owner slipped away to sleep. The universe whispered to itself, relished in the irony it created. 

_(Quid pro-quo.)_

+

After that… conversation, Tommy felt like he'd been shoved through a blender and spat out the other end. 

Despite his newfound understanding, he — of course — had kind of panicked for a second after Techno's eyes had closed, but a moment of feverishly watching the other man assured him of his status. While the breaths taken were shallow — more so than they were when he was awake, which meant even now the bastard was somewhat trying to hold himself together for Tommy's sake, even if he didn't mean to — he was breathing, and the addition of a new compress seemed to at least help reduce his fever some. After dripping a little healing potion down the other man's throat, that was all Tommy could really do. So he was left alone, bereft, with half a potion and a whirlwind of new emotions that threatened to throw him back on his ass. 

What bothered him the most though was how earnest Technoblade had been. If he'd said it more aggressively; if he'd said something completely out of character, Tommy would be tempted to chalk it up to his illness and leave it be. But Technoblade had looked completely sane, completely serious, and nothing he'd done before that point had been at all unbelievable. There was no rousing speech or impossible standard. Just belief. 

_Belief in him?_

He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his hands together, locked around the neck of the half empty healing potion as he intertwined his fingers. Somewhere to his left, a discarded empty bottle of milk lay abandoned. He pressed the cold glass to his forehead, exhaling heavily as he tried to regain his footing. 

He needed to talk about this — to sort through it somehow. He was half certain he'd pop a blood vessel if he didn't, or turn his teeth to painful nubs from how hard he wanted to grind them together. As if on cue to remind him of the impossibility, the only person Tommy could conceivably speak to coughed in his sleep. A ragged, painful sounding thing, like his very lungs were trying to escape his body. Tommy remembered that feeling — remembered the urge to hack out his organs in a mixture of panic and ash. 

Well, a sudden voice whispered, traitorously soft as it dragged his eyes up… 

_Techno wasn't the only one, was he?_

+

It had been nearly two weeks since Technoblade's return from the nether, something that Tommy held in equal regard and horror now. But in that time, he had yet to return down to Schlatt's cell. Techno had taken up that job without a word again, even bodily nudged Tommy aside and toward the mines when it was time to complete it. At the time, he'd been strangely torn between gratitude and confusion, but he wasn't about to deny Technoblade anything he wanted to do. 

_He should have,_ he thought bitterly, fingertips white against the torch, _he should have stopped him from doing so much._

He swallowed hard, eyes glossing over the walls as his flickering shadow danced beneath his feet. The tunnel hadn't changed, and the oppressive air it held felt like nothing compared to the pressure building up behind his eyes. Each step echoed far too much for it just to be the tunnel, and his grip grew painful enough that he was half certain he heard the wood he held creak in protest. 

He kept coming down here. He wasn't sure how he hadn't noticed that before; yet another on the long list, he supposed. But it was still something new; something to ponder through the fog that threatened his uncomfortable clarity. Two evils that he had to pick the lesser of — and it seemed that always led him right back down where he started. 

In his other arm, he held half a loaf of bread — the evidence of his attempt at repaying Technoblade's efforts, likely going to go uneaten at this rate. There were no potatoes left, since the other man had been dead-set on making fresh ones each day, and that plan had clearly gone out the window. When he reached the bottom of the steps, he felt a chill down his spine. 

God, it was cold down here. 

(He thought briefly, very briefly, of an enchanted book. The memory, more recent than most, tasted bitter. He'd been right after all, and nothing had ever meant less in his life.) 

He hadn't seen a glimpse of Schlatt for a hell of a while, vastly different from what he'd been doing before. Techno never talked about him either, aside from mentioning that he seemed a lot quieter than he remembered on the first day of his return. So maybe that was why he was so taken aback in that moment; why he felt like he'd been showered in ice cubes as he set the torch robotically in the sconce, eyes locked on the man behind the bars. Because this time, it wasn't just the state of the man that surprised him. 

Schlatt's hair was tied back, for one thing. That was one of the differences he noticed right away, and Tommy wasn't certain when it had gotten long enough for that to work at all. For the first time in quite a while, he thought of back then, when Schlatt had been all slick hair and slicker smiles, neat ties and shimmering cuffs. The difference here was stark, with his scruffy facial hair and pulled back locks. And if that wasn't enough, something else had changed. Something important. 

The ties, remarkably clean and vivid as ever, were gone from their places on his headboard, no longer in neat rows. Instead, the streaks of vibrant colored fabric were wrapped around his broken horn like some kind of bandage, a shock of color on his otherwise rather scruffy form. 

Schlatt — or, whatever, whoever Schlatt had become — peered over at him, and didn't scoff. He didn't sneer or jab. Didn't hypocritically poke fun at Tommy's haggard appearance, didn't bare his teeth or mock his presence — and, Tommy admitted again that was not the first time things had occurred that way. His questions, previously bubbling so close to the surface that he was certain they'd all boil over at once, suddenly stuck fast in his throat. He couldn't speak. Tommy's throat refused to let him. 

Schlatt got there first. (The fact that he couldn't tell if he was grateful for not indicated a lot more than he thought.)

"... well, shit," Schlatt said, voice low and quiet, a whisper almost drowned out by the ringing in Tommy's ears; "so you finally found out, huh." 

Not a question. No teasing. No dry wit. Just barely two, slow, drawn out thoughts, murmured quietly to an open room from a man that had long since ceased to be his enemy, and god when had that happened? Rounded off edges and smooth surfaces, long hair and old ties. A pair of sentences that undeniably indicated knowledge that bled with… with… 

_Sympathy,_ a voice faintly whispered, as if that wasn't a hammer to his glass. Another echo of the past. _It was sympathy._

A sigh. A new record.

"Just so you know, he didn't tell me. I don't know if that means shit to you, but he didn't keep it from you and not me — I've just seen it before." 

He almost laughed, but he stifled it quickly when he realized it might have turned into a scream had he let it loose. Tommy wanted to scream, torn between panic and hurt, and wasn't that stupid? After everything, after all of it, he was still hurt? When Technoblade was the one suffering in silence, putting up another stone wall in an effort to protect him? What the fuck kind of sense did that make? He thought he was past it, the selfishness, the stupid fucking ego, why was he—?

"I know," Tommy managed. It was true — he knew that. "He wouldn't do that." 

He knew that too. Believed that. 

"But that doesn't change the fact that he didn't tell you, right?"

It was unfair for Schlatt's voice to sound the way that it did — level, calm. Rational. And yet Tommy found himself clinging to it, desperate for something to anchor him to the ground. The ache behind his ribs screamed for attention, and he wanted to throw his torch across the room. He shoved it into the sconce before he could. 

"You'd know," Tommy spat, because he couldn't help it, and that was what they did, wasn't it? The fact that Schlatt didn't immediately rise to the bait was supposed to be new — but it wasn't. They both knew that it wasn't.

Tommy wasn't angry at Technoblade — at least, he didn't want to be — but his rage had to go somewhere, and it was hilarious in a strange, humorless way that Schlatt had somehow become an undeserving party in all this. To his surprise though, like a delayed reaction, Schlatt's expression twisted. Twitched for a moment into… something. Something visible, like a barely subdued full body flinch. Against his will, Tommy's eyes were drawn to those small stripes of color that lined an old man's horns. Maybe that was why Schlatt had tied them there — so they wouldn't drag his attention to them. He was always staring at them whenever Tommy visited before. 

"... I would," Schlatt said eventually, sounding utterly alien yet painfully familiar; "and that's why you believe me, isn't it." 

Still not a question. Tommy couldn't help but laugh at that. A low, quiet thing, as resigned as it was pained. No scream. It faded to the back of his mind alongside the remnants of his hatred, and he tried not to feel like old friends were slipping from his fingers as they went. When he looked up, looked at Schlatt, he saw a man in rags with broken horns, and the saddest, weariest smile he'd seen in ages. When he blinked, he saw the faintest echo of Techno's exhausted silhouette, snaked with black streaks and purple bags under his eyes. His chest tightened a little, even as something else settled — determination. An old feeling he was certain he'd buried. 

He would sort it out. He would. No matter what it took, he would find a solution, and Technoblade would be fine. After that... 

Well.

_Like recognizes like._

"Yeah," he finally said; "yeah. It is, big man." 

_For this at least. For this..._

"..."

They fell into silence after that. 

There was really nothing else to say. 

_I believe you._

\-----

+

\-----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Progression, progression...
> 
> I was actually very apprehensive about this chapter. I felt like bits and pieces of it were OOC for the characters I'd established, but at the same time I wanted to express that Tommy *has* healed somewhat, at least enough so to handle things without breaking down immediately. I doubt I'll ever be truly satisfied with a chapter, but at least this one was a long read! 
> 
> Detailed Description: 
> 
> We flashback a bit to Technoblade's POV, where we see a bit of his old memories alongside the actual event where he gets withered. He returns, and resolves to hide his condition from Tommy. 
> 
> Unfortunately for him, Tommy finds out. Tommy panics for a while, but then abruptly finds composure, wanting to handle it with more determination than before. After a short and slightly cryptic conversation — interrupted by Techno's coughing, finally revealed — Techno falls asleep, and Tommy speaks to Schlatt.


End file.
